No Accident
by Rhythm and Blues
Summary: The story of Annie Cresta, the rebellion she incited, and its death with her victory. The seventieth Hunger Games with a twist. Canon compliant.
1. Trawling and Bycatch

_**EDIT 3/8/12: The rest of this chapter is up, so read the end of it before continuing to Chapter II.**_

**Foreword:**

**To my dearest readers,**

**I've written this foreword maybe three times already. I've tried to make it sound totally badass, but I can't, so I'm just going to tell you it how it is.**

**I've always thought of the victors as being something more than celebrities for the Capitol. You enter the arena as an example for the districts – an example of how helpless they are against the Capitol – and you exit as an example too.**

**An example of what? Well, that depends on the victor.**

**I made a one shot – one that I haven't actually published here – exploring that notion. Most of the "examples" were simple, but finding one for Annie proved to be more complex. How is the mad girl victor an example? I could stick to the simple explanation that she was an example to the districts that even winning isn't always really winning, but that's no fun.**

**So I thought of a different reason.**

**I'm going to tell you right now that if you're looking for the typical "Annie's Games" fic that you should turn around right now and keep looking. Romance with Finnick does not take the front seat in this story (partially because I'm not the best at writing it), although I can tell you that Finnick is a very significant character in this story.**

**Nope, this story will not follow the typical plot for those of its variety.**

**But it is still cannon. In fact, I've looked up quite a few things on Hunger Games Wikipedia and stuff to make sure that it still fit to cannon: It does.**

**(Side note: Did you know that Annie was a Career? It says so on HGWiki: "She and Enobaria are the only Career tributes alive after _Mockingjay_.")**

**I should also tell you all that I'm a double major: Environmental science and English literature. So you might see me doing some Steinbeck-esque world-building in District Four.**

**If you read all this, you rock. If not, then I guess you're just none the wiser.**

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><p>Chapter I<p>

The sun was fading over the ocean, its reflection glistening and refracting on the water. Most of the children collecting shells on the beach had returned home, some discarding them on the shore, others clutching them in their fingers with hope to sell them to be made into jewelry in District One. Trawling and purse-seine boats were still returning to the harbor, docking and hauling off their loads to be delivered to the packaging unit. Among those boats was a small trawler painted white with the name _Annie_ scrawled on its side in red. The boat had come before the girl, but both of them were cherished by the owner.

"Annie," Gilbert Cresta yelled, calling out not to the boat beneath his feet but the girl standing on the dock. "Something's torn a hole in the trawling net. I want you to fix it up before you come home tonight, alright?"

Annie gave her father a warm smile and climbed on the boat, gracefully easing around the workers who were docking the _Annie_. "_Something's_ torn the trawling net? That rope is made for scraping along the bottom of the sea."

"Maybe it was the ancient Lochness Monster." Gilbert Cresta returned his daughter's smile with ease. The relationship between the two had always been like this, a combination of good natured ribbing and mutual respect. Gilbert's position of wealth had ensured that his firstborn received everything she could need, all the seafood in the world, any Career training just in case…

The man's smile fell. "Don't be out too late tonight, Annie. Once you fix the net, you come along home, alright? Reaping's tomorrow and your little brother's more worried than he should be."

Annie nodded. That meant that there was a good chance that little Max would try to sneak into her bed in the middle of the night. He'd been doing that since the two of them were too young to form words, and even at twelve, the habit of coming to her room when he was scared hadn't completely dispersed.

"I'd better take a look at that net real quick now, shouldn't I?" Annie said, squeezing her father's arm as she passed. "I'll be home for dinner, I think."

"Better be," Gilbert Cresta warned, pecking his daughter's cheek before following his men with their load for the day. Annie couldn't help but note that it was quite a bit less than usual, likely hampered by the hole in the net.

She walked into the control room, eying the sonar machine from a safe distance. The machine was Capitol property, even though it was made in District Three and delivered directly to District Four. It told the boat where the fish population was more dense, and only assigned Peacekeepers were allowed to even touch it. This ensured that there was always a Peacekeeper on the boat when they were on open water, watching closely for any poaching. Touching the sonar machine was a major offense; breaking it was practically a death sentence.

Needless, to say, Annie hurried to grab the extra rope from the shelf and scrambled out of the control room before she could even chance it.

The _Annie_ was one of the smaller trawling boats on the water, but the enormity of the net still startled the girl, despite the fact that she had been mending it for years. It took her a couple of minutes to even find where the hole was, every once in a while encountering bycatch that hadn't been thrown back into the sea. The little fishes flopped around before she hid them beneath the net again.

Despite Gilbert Cresta's inability to do anything with a length of rope – thusly relying primarily on his daughter to fix any nets – he was clever enough to hide some of the bycatch beneath the net, telling his poorer workers to come by and collect it later in order to feed their families. Annie couldn't help but respect him more for it.

She found the hole and gave it a quick once-over. It was pretty big but an easy fix. It wouldn't take more than a few minutes of weaving. Her fingers ran a section of rope through the net, carefully pulling together knot after knot, occasionally tightening one. Every time she messed up – which wasn't nearly as often as it once was – she couldn't help but imagine her mother's hands on hers, showing her how to correct the mistake. Annie's father couldn't tie a bow, let alone the intricate workings of a trawling net, so it was her mother who had taught her each duck and weave. Annie was hoping to teach Max soon, since her mother wasn't –

Annie heard someone approaching from the docks.

"Hey, Cresta." Terrence Littoral pounced onto the boat with the skill of a trained Career, which he was. Michael Benthic – the son of a scrawny balding man who worked for Gilbert Cresta – followed. They both had ratty t-shirts clutched in their hands.

Annie turned back to the net, weaving in the final knot and tightening it with a sharp jerk. "What are you doing here, Terrence?" She didn't really know him that well, but they had spotted for each other enough times in the Career Center for her to know that he was just a wealthy as her and wouldn't be scouting for bycatch.

Terrence gave her a weird look – his District Four green eyes flashing. "I'm helping Benthic over here provide for his family. He's a bit too scrawny to be carrying home the goods without being caught." An apologetic glance at Michael Benthic. "No offense, man."

Michael smiled, although it didn't quite reach his watery eyes. "None taken. Not all of us can be big, strong Careers."

Standing and circling the net, Annie reached the part covering the bycatch and lifted it. "Do you guys need any help?" She knew that she had to return for dinner, but she couldn't help but ask.

"Of course not," Terrence said. He gathered a few fish into the t-shirt in his fist. "But we'd love if you could join us."

She placed the net back down once Michael had filled his own t-shirt. "I can't. Sorry, but I've got to get home as soon as I can, what with the reaping tomorrow and all."

Terrence shrugged. "Alright, then." They weren't good enough friends for him to insist. In fact, the invitation itself was more good manners than anything else. "Guess we'll be seeing you at the reaping then."

"Guess so."

Michael piped up as they climbed off the boat and parted ways. "May the odds be ever in your favor." And the three of them laughed, though the laughter held the sharp edginess of anxiety.

Annie ran home, half because she didn't want to be late for dinner – which was doubtlessly pickled fish – and half because she was a much weaker runner than she was a swimmer, and the threat of the reaping the next day had her wanting a little extra practice.

Few people in District Four made a habit of wearing shoes daily, and by the time she was mounting the grainy wooden steps of her front porch, Annie was certain she'd stepped on a broken shell somewhere along the way home. She sat on the top step and swung her right foot onto her lap for further inspection. A small pink shard was lodged in the ball of her foot.

"You okay, Annie?"

"Max!" Startled, Annie tore the shell she'd been inspecting from her foot, leaving a streak of blood in its wake. She winced, not because of the pain but because she couldn't stand the sight of blood, no matter how little. Wheeling around, she scowled at her younger brother. "You scared me."

Max smiled and held out a hand, pulling Annie off the ground. "I was supposed to head out to the docks and get you. Dinner's ready."

"What are we having?" Annie asked, already anticipating his response.

"Pickled fish." Max's grin widened, exposing all of his crooked teeth. Despite the Cresta family's relative wealth, there was no such thing as orthodontics in District Four, and the Cresta family had never had a great track record with teeth alignment.

Annie whistled through the gap in her front teeth. "Pickled fish? What a surprise." She whistled again with mock enthusiasm.

The siblings shared a laugh as they passed through the screen door leading into the house. Even after so many years, the wooden planks of the floor were rough enough to get splinters if one didn't tread carefully, and Annie found herself practically hopping on one foot, hand braced against the wall, which wasn't much better. As they turned into the kitchen, the came upon the same round table that had sat in the middle of the tiny room for as long as Annie could remember. Its surface was already laden with three helpings of pickled fish, its pungent aroma tainting the room with the essence of the sea.

Gilbert Cresta was sitting patiently in one of the four chairs seated at the table. "I see your Career training's really paying off, Max," Gilbert said, chuckling. "You ran all the way to the docks and back in only a minute, if that."

"Uh-huh." Max took the seat to his father's right, and Annie could see the anxiety that their father had mentioned in his eyes for the first time.

She took a brief moment to gaze at the last unoccupied chair at the table, at how it had gathered a thick film of dust from disuse. If Diana Cresta was alive and sitting in that now dust-ridden chair, then she would have known exactly what to say to her apprehensive son to make him feel better. She might have even stretched her dexterous fingers across the table to brush his.

But Diana Cresta wasn't alive. The chair next to Annie and the crib in the closet-sized spare bedroom were both gathering dust.

"Max," Annie murmured, knowing that she could take her mother's place mending nets but could never fill the hole in the family that her death had left. "About the reaping…" She trailed off, immediately regretting that she'd started talking in the first place.

Shoveling a hunk of fish into his mouth, Max huffed. "What?" he snapped, the tightness around his eyes telling her that he was holding back tears.

Annie's next words came out without a thought. "They won't reap you."

"How do you know?"

"Because…" Her eyes flickered to the abandoned chair beside hers, mind traveling unbidden to pale hands clutching at bloodstained sheets before she forced it to pale tapered fingers teaching her how to make rope from palm fronds.

Annie was six then, and deathly afraid that the Peacemakers would beat her mother for taking the palms from a tree by the shore. She'd seen them do that to a man who was collecting coconuts from the same tree not three weeks earlier, and she was too young to know that there was a difference between stealing Capitol-bound food and taking otherwise-useless palm fronds. She remembered that her mother had gathered the fronds and carefully pinched their ends, folding them over and wrapping them around each other clockwise. It was important – Diana Cresta had told her daughter in a soft, gentle tone – to keep the rope pinched tightly whenever a new frond was added so not to let the whole thing unravel. By the end of the day of sitting on the shore and lacing, Annie's mother had made the two of them rope bracelets from the fronds and Annie knew how to make rope.

Now Annie's gaze moved to her wrist, to the bracelet sitting alone there. After a few years, the tiny piece of rope had been too small to fit around the section of flesh and bone between her hands and forearms, so Annie had extended it, using the skills her mother had taught her.

"Because I won't let them."

Her words sounded soft and gentle and foreign in her own head, but they must have worked, because Annie woke up alone on reaping day.

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><p><strong>You guys are awesome people. I'm going to continue to work on this when I can. Hopefully, I'll be able to put up a chapter a week. We'll see.<strong>

**Any thoughts?**


	2. The Reaping

**_IMPORTANT NOTE 3/11/12: Make sure you've read all of Chapter I! It wasn't all posted at the same time!_**

**Here's the next chapter, folks. I was hoping to make it longer, but any of you out there who have read my other fics on this cite know that my attention span would impress a goldfish in its nonexistance.**

**Shout out to **TeamGlimmer** who StoryAlerted and **Account Currently on Hiatus**, **Oisin55**, and **Pasdoll** who reviewed. (Just in case any of you enjoy seeing your names dropped in other people's stories as much as I do.)**

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><p>Chapter II<p>

Tumultuous clouds hovered in the sky, heavy with the promise of rain. The bright sun of yesterday was trapped somewhere behind them, banging against them with its shining fists and turning them a pearly grey. Walking to the town center with her hand tightly grasping Max's – much to his embarrassment and relief – Annie could taste the birth of the rainy season in the air. Beside her, Max was idly turning and twisting the wrist he had broken two years ago when he had fallen badly on the docks; this year would be particularly stormy.

As the Cresta family entered the town square and Annie took in the thin bodies of the worse-off District Four children, she sent out a silent prayer that one of the District Four tributes would win this year. The rainy season was never a great time for the district, when the boats sometimes couldn't leave the harbor without being tossed asunder by the hungry, monstrous waves. And this year promised to be a bad one. If this three-month rainy season had too many stormy days, then the catch-rate of the fishing boats would plummet, and if that happened, then the poor would go hungry.

"It's going to be a stormy season," Annie said, mostly in an attempt to lift the heavy tension that had settled over them.

Max nodded but was otherwise unresponsive. The lines of his soft jaw were hardened – as if he were clenching his teeth behind closed lips – and two lines had formed between his dark brows.

They walked in silence until it was time for them to go their separate ways. Gilbert Cresta squeezed his two children's shoulders and disappeared into the crowd of parents, leaving Annie and Max standing together alone.

"Max…"

Turning to face her full on, Max pulled Annie into his arms, briefly resting his forehead against her shoulder. "Four's a big district," he mumbled, and Annie had to wonder whether he said it to comfort her or himself.

"And you've only got one slip of paper in that fishbowl," she finished. Everyone in District Four called those great glass globes fishbowls, and Annie couldn't help but sometimes wonder what the other districts – the ones that didn't revolve around fish and seaweed and seashells – called them. "We're as safe as we could be."

The two parted, walking in opposite directions as Max shouldered as far from the makeshift stage as possible and Annie drew closer. Soon enough, she found Nautia, a Career girl she had been at least friendly with since the two of them had begun their training. They were friends, Annie supposed, if only in the sense that they spoke to each other whenever they saw each other, but they never really sought out one another. Nautia had an older sister and had somehow monopolized all of her friends. And as far as Annie was concerned, her best friend was Max.

"Hey," Nautia said, lending Annie a soft smile. Her face held a spattering of freckles, interrupted only where auburn corkscrews framed her face. "How's your little brother holding up?"

"He's fine. A little nervous, but it's his first reaping, so he's got a good enough excuse as any."

"Guess so. My sister's nineteen now, so now it's just me."

"Trust me, Nautia." Standing tiptoe, Annie scanned the crowd of younger boys for a dark, disheveled head of hair. "It's better when you're alone in the reaping. So," she met Nautia's eyes again. "Am I the only one hoping that District Four will be bringing home a victor this year? With the way the weather's looking, people could really use the winnings."

Taking a moment to glance at the pregnant clouds above them, Nautia nodded. "I think everyone's hopes for a win every year. Especially," she said, her eyes now lingering on the platform where District Four's mentors were gathering behind the mayor and Capitol escort, "One as sexy as Finnick Odair."

"Nautia!" Even as she chided her acquaintance, Annie couldn't help but scrape her eyes over Finnick Odair, who had apparently decided that reaping day was shirt-optional. No one could say that the sixty-fifth Hunger Games' victor wasn't attractive, and he was known for being exceptionally promiscuous whenever he made an appearance in the Capitol, but it didn't seem right to say that about someone with such sad eyes.

They were District Four green, typical enough to ignore – especially when surrounded by the sculpted features of his face. Annie wouldn't be surprised if no one noticed the agony in them, but she saw. Those eyes were the eyes of a man who had killed not out of heartlessness but necessity. Those were eyes that Annie would never want to see when she looked in the mirror but couldn't look away from on his face.

Those eyes met hers for a moment – confusion scrunching together the brows above them – before they were ripped away by the sound of the mayor's voice.

"So many years in the past," the mayor – a portly man who had no signs of ever working on a fishing boat – began. "Natural disasters and war tore apart the world, leaving North America to fight for what was left of the world's resources. In order to prevent the public from descending into chaos –"

As disrespectful as she felt it was, Annie stopped listening as soon as the mayor his the word "chaos." She would have paid further attention if he varied his speech from year to year, but every single word was exactly the same as it had always been. Like a famous poem, she knew each phrase well enough to perform the speech herself.

Instead, she focused her gaze on the two victors who would be mentoring this year – Finnick Odair and Mags, a victor who had been around long enough that no one could remember what her last name actually _was_. Mags' eyes weren't classic emerald but instead a common-but not-unheard-of electric blue color. All the same, she had that same haunted look that Finnick Odair had.

It was a look all the victors had as soon as they left the arena and realized exactly what they had done when they were inside.

Annie was so caught in Mags' eyes that it wasn't until they snapped to hers that she realized that _everyone_ was looking at her. Nautia was jabbing her ribs with a bony elbow and whispering something about being called and climbing onstage.

"Huh?"

"Annie Cresta?" Eros Coastas – the District Four escort with a ridiculous name and hair an equally ridiculous shade of blue – called out. There was an impatient edge to his tone that suggested that this wasn't the first time he had called her name.

A jolt of shock – tremulous and cold – ran up Annie's spine. She'd been paying such little attention that she hadn't even heard him call her own name.

Elbowing her way up to the platform where Eros Coastas had started tapping his pointy-toed shoe against the ground, Annie tried to align her features into the face of all the Careers she had seen mounting these steps before her. Confident, self-assured, and even a little bit excited. There was no way that she was going to be a nervous mess like she'd seen some tributes in the past act.

Now she was on the stage, standing beside Eros Coastas as he called out – to no avail – for volunteers from the crowd. Annie could feel both mentors staring at her from behind, both probably thinking of the split seconds where they had met their eyes and probably cursing themselves for jinxing her. And when no one came forward to "steal Annie's thunder," Eros drew another slip from the other fishbowl.

"Nicolas Abyssal!"

Annie's stomach dropped. Nicolas Abyssal was almost as well known in District Four as Finnick Odair was. With horror, she watched him step onto the stage, the toothy grin on his elfin face revealing what everyone in the district already knew.

Nicolas Abyssal had no clue what was going on.

In the few short encounters with him that Annie had had, she knew that he was a nice enough boy, but something was _off_ about him and had been since he was little. He was friendly, but a little _too_ friendly. His low nose and wide mouth and low forehead only validated that there was something _not right._ He acted years younger than he really was and _had_ to say hello to everyone in town he passed by.

"Any volunteers," Eros Coastas asked, obviously disappointed with the name he had pulled this year. Those with disabilities never made good television in the Games.

The crowd was silent until a "sure," rang out, and Terrence Littoral was shoving Nicolas Abyssal off stage.

Annie shook Terrence's hand when she was told to, and they shared a meaningful look.

Although District Four was a Career district, it was far enough from the Capitol's immediate favor to know that being reaped for the Games was never quite the honor it was made out to be. The wealthy were given the opportunity to train their children as Careers in the unlikely chance that their names were pulled, but no one ever voluntarily entered the madness that was the Hunger Games.

Volunteering rarely happened, unless someone arrogant enough to think they could win came around. And as much as Annie would have believed that Terrence Littoral – who acted self centered and confident enough – was one of those people, the fact that she had seen him helping the poor just yesterday had her mind veering elsewhere.

Had anyone else's name been picked – anyone's other than slow Nicolas Abyssal's – Terrence Littoral would not have volunteered.

Annie wished she could use words to express that she understood completely, but all she had were her eyes and the gentle squeeze of her hand in his before she was yanked away and dumped into the Justice Building to wait for her family to say goodbye.

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><p><strong>We got some Finnick in there, right? Some of these chapters will be in his POV (maybe the chapter after next?), so prepare yourself, folks.<strong>

**Also, just a wondering, pondering question: What do you Finnick/Annie fans believe in? Do you believe they met/fell in love pre- or post-Annie's Games? My opinion's obvious, but I'd be interested in knowing what you guys think and why.**

**Drop a review, if you want. **


	3. Promises

**I know! I took more than the week I wanted this to take. In my defense, I've been distracted by tech week/performances of a show that I was in, which left me little time to write. HOWEVER! I have made a lot of future-plot work in some spare time, and this thing's going to be an EPIC, I swear (or at least relatively original?).**

**Without further adieu...**

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><p>Chapter III<p>

Intellectually, Annie knew that she should have been feeling at least marginally upset about being sent off to the Hunger Games to fight to the death, but she found herself startlingly clearheaded. Mingling somewhere in a state of mild shock.

It was probably a good thing, to be so empty and numb. She was a Career. Careers didn't show things like fear and grief to the crowds. Careers didn't leave the Justice Building with bloated, reddened eyes. And Annie was a Career, so she wouldn't either.

Instead, she ran her eyes along the pale walls of the Justice Building, ran her fingers along the velvety couch she'd taken a seat on. Although she'd heard of velvet and seen it enough to identify the rich cloth beneath her as such, Annie had never actually had a chance to touch it the way she was now, and she found herself fascinated by the way its texture changed. At first, it was ruffled and ragged beneath her callused palms, but then it was soft and rich and Annie understood the term _velvety_ more than she ever had before.

Unbidden, the duality of the fabric on the sofa reminded her of Terrence Littoral, who all at once seemed arrogant and compassionate. Of Finnick Odair's face, so young and attractive with those eyes so weathered and sad.

Thinking of that "victor's look" had Annie blurting out her next words as soon as she heard the door creak open from across the room.

"I'm not killing anyone."

"Annie…" Gilbert Cresta gathered her up in his arms. "You have to, honey." He buried his face in her hair. Annie could feel her hair dampening with tears, and she was reminded that this man was the man who gave her life. He was the man who loved so fervently and lived so strongly that the last time she had seen him cry was at her mother's death.

She maneuvered herself from her arms, carefully holding his watery gaze. "I don't have to kill anyone, Dad." At this, she glanced at Max, who was standing just beyond the door, looking so small and so _twelve_.

"You have to win," he said. "For the district."

_For us_ rang silently between them.

"And I will," Annie replied, beckoning Max towards her. He gingerly dropped himself beside her on the velvet sofa. "But I'm not going to kill anyone."

"How are you going to win without killing anyone?"

Whistling a bit through her front teeth, she turned to her father. "Any suggestions, Dad?" This was, after all, the same man who managed to regularly hide bycatch on his boat with a Peacekeeper on deck.

"I…" Too shaken to even think, Gilbert Cresta gave his daughter a pleading look. "Why can't you just try your best to win, sweetheart? No one could possibly blame you for killing anyone when you're in the arena…"

For the first time since she had stumbled into the Justice Building, Annie felt a spike of pure feeling dance through her bones. She had to take a moment to quell her indignance and understand her father's own desperation. "It's not about what people think of me. It's not even about what I think about myself." Admittedly, it was, a little bit about that. Annie knew she couldn't bear it if she had to see her own eyes morph into victor eyes. "It's about what's right, and you can't justify killing, especially when it's only for entertainment."

"Don't say things like that, Annie," Gilbert Cresta hissed.

"Why?" Annie asked. This wasn't the first time she'd said such. In fact, her mother had always said the same, all the way until the day she died.

"We're not at home, Annie," her father murmured. "We're in the Justice Building."

It struck her that – from now until either her victory or death – she was being watched.

"You have a token?" Max asked, the look on his face enough to show that he was deliberately steering the conversation away from such thoughts.

Annie swept her eyes over her person. "Umm…"

"Why don't you take your bracelet? It's not long enough to choke anyone with or anything, right?"

Rubbing the tough rope between her fingers, she nodded. "Good idea, Max." And she forcibly yanked him into her arms, threading her hand into his dark, curly hair. "I'm going to miss you."

"Me too," he whispered. When Annie pulled away, his wide green eyes were magnified by tears. "Win, okay?" He disentangled himself from the hug to make room for their father before she could answer.

Her father's hug was different from Max's, less soft and hopeful and more filled with a strange, sorrowful intensity. Nose against his tanned neck, Annie inhaled his scent, as if taking his smell would take him with her. He smelled like sea salt and fresh fish and drenched rope.

"Do what you think is right," Gilbert Cresta said, giving Annie a chance to breathe a hushed _yes_ into his ear.

And they were gone with the tears Annie couldn't shed, leaving her to stroke the velvet fabric of the sofa again.

Her next guests came in the surprising form of Nicolas Abyssal parents, the mother sobbing and blubbering and the father standing grimly beside her. Most of the family resemblance between Nicolas and his parents was lost in the unnaturally elfin quality of his features, but Annie recognized the gleaming grey of the father's eyes and the slightly crooked set of the mother's ears.

"I don't… I can't… My Nicolas!" Mrs. Abyssal wailed, upset enough to fall into a heap on the ground had her husband not kept a steady hand on her arm.

"We had to thank Terrence," Mr. Abyssal explained, pulling his hysterical wife to his side. "For taking our son's place. He said volunteered because that he knew he was going to win, but I think we all know the truth."

Annie nodded, then whistled through her teeth. "Then why are…?" She trailed off, unsure of how exactly to ask them why they were visiting her without sounding at least somewhat rude.

Taking a single, great step forward, Mr. Abyssal took her hand and placed something in it, carefully closing her fist around it. "Nicolas wanted you to have this. He collects them."

Opening her hand, Annie inspected the object. It was a shell, white and grainy and ribbed with a faint crack that ended with a jagged, good sized hole. "Thank you," she murmured.

"Nicolas has a way with remembering faces," Mr. Abyssal replied. He stroked his wife's hair. "He said that this shell was your smile."

"Here." Annie unwound her rope bracelet and pulled the end of it through the hole in the shell. "It'll be my token. They shouldn't make people like Nicolas eligible for the reaping."

Nicolas' parents looked aghast, and Annie had to remind herself again that she was doubtlessly being watched.

"I'd tell you I'm going to win," she said. "But I don't know if I will. And it might be better if Terrence wins. He deserves it for what he's done for your son."

Clutching her husband close, Mrs. Abyssal gave Annie a watery smile that couldn't seem to reach her bloodshot eyes. "You're a good kid, Annie Cresta. Don't change."

Annie's returning smile was more polite than anything else. The words were vague enough to leave her puzzled but clear enough to have her understand. "I don't plan to."

Reaching to give her hand a light squeeze, Nicolas' parents left as abruptly as they came.

Nautia was the next to open the door. She practically pounced onto the sofa and sat beside Annie, disregarding the deep color and rich texture of the chair. The tight auburn curls in her hair bounced, as if to display enthusiasm or jitters. "Here's how it's gonna work, Annie," Nautia began, and Annie knew it would do little good to stop her now. "You're a Career, so you're gonna go in there, dazzle everyone, beat all the tributes, and come home so you can tell me all about your time with the yummy Finnick Odair. You're not bad with a knife, so –"

"Nautia," Annie said.

"What?"

"I'm not going to be using a knife or... anything." Hands fluttering – catching the soft crimson sofa fabric, tracing the coarse ivory smile-shell – Annie furrowed her brows. "I'm trying to think of a way to survive without killing anyone."

"What?" Nautia hissed. The end of the word was now sharp and accompanied by a smattering of spit. _"Why?"_

"Because I don't believe in taking another's life," Annie replied, earnest. She was still looking at Nautia when the door opened to the quaint scent of ocean air. Without sparing a glance, she could sense the tall, broad form of the Peacekeeper, his burly shape taking up the doorway from where he stood on the threshold.

Nautia, however, couldn't bring herself to notice him. "Is this about your mom, Annie? I know no one ever talks about it, but I have to say this: this – what's happening right now – isn't even close to what happened to your mom. I mean, it's not like she had some violent death. And I don't think that you should just give up and have yourself slaughtered because your mom died in childbirth. That doesn't even make any sense!"

The Peacekeeper in the doorway cleared his throat.

Eying him warily, Annie squeezed Nautia's hand and said, "It's not something I can explain to you, Nautia. Watching the life drain out of someone – no matter the circumstances… I don't want to see that again."

And Annie followed the Peacekeeper out of the Justice Building without a fuss.

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><p><strong>Annie's put herself in a difficult situation, hasn't she? I don't know, being someone with a moral compass that always faces due north seems like a good way to explain future events without making Annie a weakling.<strong>

**Thoughts?**


	4. Cookies on a Train

**ATTENTION: Finnick has entered the building!**

**And - because I always forget it - I don't own The Hunger Games, and, frankly, and I don't really want to.**

**Shoutout to... **artwriter27**, **Hinamori13**, and **Slothies** for story favoriting, **TwilightCharmedFaie**, **svenskmidsommar** for story alerting, and **WhiskyFlower** for reviewing. I don't make a habit for pining for reviews, but it's always nice to get one.**

**I have not seen the movie yet, so... don't ruin it for me?**

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><p>Chapter IV<p>

"What do you think of our tributes, Mags? Worth any effort?" Finnick Odair gave his old mentor his most winning smile, the trace of his lips only growing wider when Mags gave her own toothless grin in return.

Mags hobbled away from the window and sat at the table in the center of the train car, leaving Finnick alone to watch the tributes make their way through the throng of reporters at the platform. The boy was giving his best smile, bearing a certain cockiness on his face that reminded Finnick of himself. The girl looked a little overwhelmed but was acting handily in front of the cameras.

"Seem like good kids," Mags replied from her seat at the table.

As if that meant that either of them would have a greater chance of survival. In fact, Finnick was pretty sure that being a good person just made it harder in the arena. Giving the two kids another once-over as they entered an adjacent cart, he said, "I don't know about them. You think the boy volunteered because he wanted to save Nicolas Abyssal or because he thought he could win this?"

"Like you."

"You overestimate me, Mags," Finnick chided, smirking. "I'm just as conceited as I seem. And I'd never volunteer to take someone else's place." The reporters noticed his face in the window for the first time, and his smirk grew wider and faker before he pulled back the curtain and sat down beside Mags.

Covering Finnick's flawless hand with her own gnarled and aged one, Mags squeezed and said nothing. The look in her eyes was enough to tell him that she didn't believe a word of what he had just said.

They were enveloped in silence for a long time before Finnick reached across the table – already laden with various foods – and stole a few cookies from one of the plates. He popped them into his mouth, and they made a pleasant crunching sound as he munched on them.

Ever since his first train ride during his own Games, Finnick had discovered that he had a weakness for sweets. He came from a relatively well-off family – well off enough for him to receive some Career training – but he was pretty sure that the only people who could afford the sweets sold in the center square of District Four were the residents of Victor's Village.

Exactly five years ago to the day was the first time that Finnick had eaten sugar – in the form of the sugar cubes meant to go into the coffee – and ever since his win, he had been the candy seller's best customer.

He smiled as an aged hand carved its own path to the cookies. Mags was a close second.

"The girl," Mags mumbled, the words made even more garbled by the fact that she was speaking around a cookie.

"Yeah?" Finnick said. "What about her?"

"Looked at me."

Finnick remembered that. He was a little too used to girls trying to catch his eye, but he remembered her. She had been standing heartbreakingly close to the makeshift stage – probably seventeen or eighteen – and hadn't looked away when he caught her staring. For the life of him, he couldn't recall the color of her eyes, too distracted by the face that their eyes had met. More often than not, when Finnick caught girls staring at him, they weren't staring at his eyes.

"She looked at me too," he whispered. Quite a pair they had this year. The boy who volunteered for a handicapped kid and the girl with eyes like a nun. "Do you think that one of them this year will be…?" He trailed off uncertainly. The little victor-rebel group that he'd joined a couple years ago was trying to find a figure head for the cause – preferably a victor – and they'd been searching for a while for the right candidate. Of course, that wasn't the only dilemma the group had…

"A victor?" Mags was just as aware as he that there were cameras everywhere even remotely Capitol related, and that they had to keep anything they said about rebellion ambiguous enough to pass off as something else. "Wait and see… The boy, maybe," she added as an afterthought.

"Maybe…" Volunteering for the weak could prove to be a valuable trait of the future face of the rebellion. "Guess we'll find out the more we get to know them. And after we scope out the competition." Finnick and the other victor-rebels had thought quite a bit about how they were going to find the right person.

They'd have to see if there were any other possible candidates among the districts – preferably not one or two – and try to help as many candidates as possible to win once they were in the arena. The candidates needed to be not only strong and clever, but kind too, and finding all three in a tribute proved to be tricky.

The boy arrived first, sauntering in with brashness that Finnick and Mags hadn't seen in a tribute for a long time. He took the seat across from Finnick and leaned back so that he was balanced on two chair legs, and Finnick was beginning to think that the boy really had only volunteered because he thought he'd win if he did.

It wasn't until he put his feet onto the table – bare and still sandy from the shore – that Mags swatted at him with her cane from across the table. "Eat something," she commanded.

He was digging into a plate of something Finnick thought might be called chicken Alfredo when the girl came in and silently slid into the chair across from Mags. Eros Coastas followed on her heels and took the last remaining seat at the head of the table.

"Well," Eros chirped, his voice high and pretentious and unnaturally effeminate. "Let's have some proper introductions, shall we? As you all know," he held his hand to his chest, the shimmering aquamarine of his fingernails blending with his garish silver shirt, "I'm Eros Coastas, the District Four escort."

"Mags," Mags murmured, giving the table the close-lipped smile that she reserved for tributes. Finnick was pretty sure that the only reason she didn't smile with her mouth open around them was because she didn't want to scare them off with her teeth – or lack thereof.

Leaning back in his chair, Finnick righted himself when he realized that he was acting just like the boy tribute. "Finnick Odair," he said reluctantly. There was no need to lay on the charm here on the train where none of his loving fan-customers were around to swoon over him.

"I'm Terrence Littoral," the boy said. When he actually spoke aloud, he sounded affable, less arrogant than he seemed when he didn't speak at all. "And this here," he jabbed his thumb to the girl tribute beside him, "Is Annie Cresta. Probably the first tribute ever to not even notice that their name was called." At this, Terrence gave the girl a teasing sidelong glance.

Despite the dark curliness of her hair and the District Four tan covering every inch of her skin in sight, Annie's whole face darkened to a deep red. "I was distracted."

Terrence laughed out loud, and the rest of the table's occupants couldn't help but let out a few soft chuckles themselves. It only made Annie's face grow darker. "By what?" Terrence asked.

Straightening from her slumped, sheepish position, Annie's eyes – Green! They were a classic District Four green that Finnick should have guessed without even seeing – met Mags' across the heavy plates of treats between them. "You have very blue eyes, Mags," Annie said. A hollow whistling sound reverberated from her mouth. "Very wise too."

This time Mags' smile exposed what was left of her teeth. "Thank you, Annie."

"So!" Finnick threw himself forward in his seat and rubbed his palms together when the silence had lasted too long. "Let's talk strategy, huh? You two are Careers, right?"

"Yeah," Annie swept her hair away from her face with her hand. It was curlier and even more unruly than it looked from far away. "But that's not why Terrence volunteered, right?"

Unlike his female counterpart, Terrence didn't blush, but he did look awfully uncomfortable before he recovered and spoke. "Sure it is, Annie. I'm going to win these Games like no one's business."

"You're lying," Annie accused. "Why else would you help Michael Benthic get the bycatch?"

Finnick hissed under his breath, hoping that she would hear it but the cameras wouldn't. Did this girl have no sense?

Obviously she must have heard him, because Annie bit her lip for a moment before she continued. "You're too nice to people for me to believe that you only volunteered because you wanted fame or something."

"Wait," Eros Coastas screeched, forgotten somewhere in the conversation and eager to get a little attention back. "You two know each other? I always figured Four was a big district."

"It is," Finnick explained. He could remember that both tributes had come from the seventeen-eighteen section when they walked up to the stage. "But if they're both the same age and they're both Careers, then I'm not surprised. Besides," he teased. "Everyone in Panem knows me, and Panem's even bigger." He smirked.

"That's different," Eros spat. "You're… famous!"

Finnick shrugged.

"I will be too," Terrence boasted. "Once I win these Games."

Exchanging a loaded look with Mags, Finnick considered Terrence. If what Annie said was true, then he could be a candidate, provided he didn't act like this once he got to the arena. "You guys going to be joining the Career pack, then?"

"I will," Terrence said. He nudged Annie beside him. "I don't think Annie will though. She's squeamish."

A squeamish Career?

"I am not squeamish." In her indignance, Annie's hopelessly disheveled hair fell into her face, and she was forced to sweep it back again.

"Yeah you are. Remember that time when I nicked myself with a knife in training? I could tell on your face that you didn't like it."

"Sure, but no one likes blood, Terrence."

"Well, do you wanna join the Career pack?"

"No," Annie conceded before making herself seem larger like a pufferfish might. "But that doesn't mean that I'm squeamish."

But Terrence insisted. "Maybe squeamish is the wrong word, but you've been freaked out by blood since you were thirteen."

At that, Annie said nothing, once again scooting low in her chair and now picking at the hearty food in her plate. Finnick couldn't help but notice that the cookie on her plate was only half eaten.

Taking it upon herself to resolve the issue between the two tributes, Mags grasped her cane tightly in her hands and spoke up. "Separate or together?"

"What's that, Mags?" Dark curls and District Four eyes relinquished their hold on her plate in favor of the old mentor's face.

"She was asking," Finnick declared, more than used to translating now. "If you guys wanted to work separately or together, considering only one of you wants to join the Career pack."

The two tributes deliberated silently for a moment, leaning their heads close enough together that their hair mingled and Finnick could no longer see their faces. He really was quite impressed by Annie Cresta's hair.

As if she knew what he was thinking, Annie turned back to Finnick. "Together. We don't have anything to hide from one another."

"Skills?" Mags prompted. As Careers, the two tributes were undoubtedly proficient in most of the skills offered by the training center in District Four, but it was important to know where strengths and weaknesses laid.

"I'm ranked second best swimmer," Annie announced, voice uncertain. "And I've tied knots since I could move my fingers. I fix nets at the pier for fishermen."

Recalling his own Games – _tangles of rope like a spider web and the spatter of blood on his trident and in his mouth _– Finnick knew not to underestimate the effectiveness of a good knot. But swimming and tying knots didn't win the Hunger Games; killing did. "Anything else?"

"Nothing else I'm going to use."

"What do you mean, nothing else to use?" The words came from Terrence's mouth, but they were sizzling on Finnick's tongue too. "You're pretty good with a knife. What about that?"

"Well…" A flash of something familiar and fierce made its way across Annie's irises. Determination. "I'm not going to kill anyone."

_What?_ Finnick could remember hearing some tributes in the past make an oath like that. "That's what a lot of people say," – though none with quite the ardent resolve she had – "but once you're in the arena," Finnick said. "You'll forget all about that promise."

Slumping back in her chair and crossing her arms – as if she had debated the same subject too many times before – Annie said, "You're entitled to your opinion, Finnick."

Finnick stretched his fingers around another cookie. "Well, why don't you want to kill anyone?" Nothing about her stance or stature implied that she was too weak in body or spirit to do it.

"Because," said Annie, her gaze flickering between him and Mags. "I think I might rather die than have victor's eyes."

The words echoed in the hush that followed, interrupted only by the occasional clinking of metal tongs against china and the soft crunch of a cookie between Finnick's lips as he contemplated what she said. _Victor's eyes._ The Seventieth Games were Finnick's third time mentoring, and he couldn't deny that he had noticed that melancholy film over the other victors' eyes before. Especially when any of them would begin quietly ranting and raving about the cruelty of Snow and the Capitol during their clandestine rebel meetings.

But did the sad look about them come from killing in the arena or never quite leaving it when all the dead tributes did?

"My goodness!" Eros jarred Finnick from his thoughts, palming a garish pocket-watch in his hand. "We need to watch the recaps," he exclaimed. Clanking his plate against the table, he stood and ushered the tributes and victors alike to rise. "Everyone up, up! We're going to miss District One."

It turned out that District One consisted of a blonde girl who was significantly less attractive than One's typical output. There certainly wasn't – Finnick thought – much chance that this girl would follow in Cashmere's footsteps if she won the Games, with ropy muscles that made her head melt into the thickness of her neck. The boy tribute was a bid more of a looker – honey brown hair with eyes to match – but he seemed just as threatening.

District Two offered the same tributes they did every year – ruthless, bloodthirsty Careers with dark eyes and vicious smiles. The Capitol's favorites, through and through.

Three consisted of a fifteen year old girl tribute with a devious expression and twitching hands and an eighteen year old boy tribute, tall and stick thin with hair that looked electrically shocked.

At District Four, Finnick watched himself from onstage, hating how attractive he looked and watching his own surprise on his face when Terrence Littoral volunteered for Nicolas Abyssal. Annie only stood out for her striking features and the fact that she hadn't heard her name being called.

After that, each district's tributes were an unimpressive blur. This year was looking like a Career year, where the Careers dominated the Games and the other districts had no option but to run away from them until caught. Finnick exchanged glances with Mags from across the couch and sighed.

By the looks of things, there would be no one to spark the flames of rebellion this year.

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><p><strong>Well, there's Chapter IV. Does it seem like I'm paying too much attention to Terrence? I mean, I have to make you get to know himlike him before I give him a gory, traumatic death, right?**

**Thoughts?**


	5. Light

**I finally saw the movie and greatly enjoyed it. It solidified a lot of my head-cannon about how the Gamemaking works (although I fear that may make this story seem a little less original than it was going to be).**

**Not sure how happy I am with this chapter. It was going to include two other scenes, but I had to cut it short lest it be four thousand words long.**

**In case you enjoy seeing your names in another's stories: Thanks to **CJuneK** for story alerting and dropping a review, **SilverNight92** for hitting this story with a triple threat (Favorite/Alert/Review), **WhiskyFlower** for dropping a review (your consistency is praised), **Bubble wrap is my life**,** BoredCollegeGirl**,** beautifully psychopathic**, and **xonceuponamidnightdrearyx** for story alerting, and **xxNileylovexx** for story favoriting. You guys rock.**

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><p>Chapter V – Light<p>

Light. From the fervent, snapping flash of cameras to the twinkle of streetlamps along the city streets, there was little use running from light in the Capitol. District Four was calm at night, with nothing but the soft lapping of waves and the occasional Peacekeeper boat headlights to interrupt the muted calm of bright stars against the velvet black sky, but the Capitol was as bright in the hours of dusk as it was in dawn.

The famously tall buildings that stood high enough to scrape the skies were filled with individual rooms, each with their own individual glow. In the Center Square it was brightest, where advertisements and television programs were played on glowing screens mounted on the sides of the buildings. During the Games, the two largest screens would serve to televise the events to anyone in the area, one screen to show the same images transported to the television sets of every citizen of Panem, the other to display statistics on the tributes for betting.

Finnick could remember being in the Capitol for the first time during his Games, could vividly recall looking out the window of his room and wondering where the stars went. Maybe the Capitol took the stars from their sky to power the bulbs he could see lighting up the city at night.

Even after visiting the Capitol so many times, Finnick always missed the stars that told him he was home.

But the lights and the feeling of being observed like an exotic animal that every district citizen experienced in the Capitol was much better than the private darkness of the Capitol.

Sometimes President Snow would send a message to Finnick as soon as his feet touched Capitol ground, usually a wax-sealed letter that smelled like roses from a boy in white. Other times, Finnick was able to enjoy himself – as much as a victor could – until he was yanked away from mentoring.

But Finnick's occupation in the darkness did have its advantages too.

The idea was – Finnick was begrudged to admit – not his or even Mags' but cleverly thought up by Beetee and Haymitch. When they'd first pitched it to him, they had made it sound so easy, seducing the women – and the occasional man – that he laid with in order to procure… secrets. And when Finnick first tried it out on a pudgy purple woman who whispered to him about some politician's hidden drinking problem, he found out it was.

Amid the chaos of lights and thoughts of secrets, Finnick didn't even notice that there was no boy in white until he was sitting in Victors' Row – a row of seats directly beside the tributes' entrance reserved for the mentors – with Mags, waiting for the tributes to get their wardrobe assembled and come riding out.

Leaning into Mags, Finnick whispered, "Where are we meeting?" The victor-rebels never met in the same place twice, and always had to be sure that anywhere they did meet would be loud enough or remote enough to conceal their treasonous talk. Barring extenuating circumstances or emergency meetings, the members took turns picking the meeting place. This time, it was Chaff's turn.

Touching a finger to her lips, Mags passed him the slip of paper that was making its way down the line of victors, exclusively passed on to the victor-rebels.

Careful to keep the paper from showing, Finnick caught the word _O'Brien's_ before passing it to Beetee on his right. O'Brien's was a popular bar in the seedier – though still wealthier than the districts – part of the Capitol. Finnick had heard of the place, but he'd never been there. It didn't surprise him that Chaff had chosen that location for their meeting. Few Capitol bars were fine with letting mentors getting full-out drunk during the Games, but O'Brien's was one of them.

"So, Beetee," Finnick said, clasping the other man's shoulder. "What do you think of the tributes this year?"

Adjusting his glasses on his nose, Beetee glanced around them, from President Snow's place at the grand podium to the tributes' entrance. "My tributes are on the older side this year. I have high hopes for them, although I'm under no illusions that either will come out victor. The girl – Brakea – is already at work in one of our more prestigious labs designing a more efficient power grid for the Capitol. The boy – Cord – is working with his parents to design a safer and more environmentally friendly water purification system. He tells me that they've been studying the more rudimentary aeration and coagulation processes of the past in order to further their current progress."

Finnick blinked. "What?"

Beetee gave that smile he always gave when he knew the person he was talking to hadn't understood him. "They're quite intelligent."

"Are they nice?" Unlike many other mentors, Beetee didn't avoid getting to know his tributes before they were sent off to their deaths. And it was always nice to know if there were any potential figureheads.

"They seem quite amiable. The girl seems to have a bit of a mean streak, but that can do nothing but help her in the arena, right?"

"Right," Finnick murmured. Not the girl, then.

"And your tributes," said Beetee. "Quite the move, volunteering as your boy tribute did. An act of compassion or arrogance?"

Finnick shook his head. Terrence still proved to be a puzzle, juggling between cockiness and kindness. The boy couldn't seem to stop boasting himself, but Finnick had witnessed him helping Mags down the steep train station steps when he couldn't reach her fast enough. "I don't know, Beetee. His head is bigger than a whale shark, but he seems like a nice guy."

"Like you, then."

Chuckling, Finnick shook his head again. "That's what Mags said."

"Mags knows what she's talking about." Crouching forward in his seat, Beetee's eyes sparkled behind the thick frames of his glasses. "And what about the girl? Anything to note about her?"

"She doesn't know when to keep her mouth shut," said Finnick. "If the Capitol didn't need a girl from Four, I wouldn't be surprised if someone assassinated her by now."

"Oh?"

"She says she isn't going to kill anyone."

"Oh, but," for a moment, Finnick could see a darkness in the back of Beetee's eyes – _the stunned fidgeting at the feet of a short teenage boy from Three as he shocked his adversaries_. "That won't last when she's in the arena."

"I know," Finnick mumbled, voice hollow. His mind was on the moment she announced that she wouldn't kill. On the look of determination that crossed her face. Admittedly, when he had seen that look, he had believed her – if only briefly.

"It seems that this year will be one for the Careers, though. Don't you –" Beetee's words were drowned out by the shrieking cacophony of the audience as the tributes burst from the entrance on their chariots.

Finnick immediately felt bad for the District One tributes, whose costumes consisted of white glitter dumped over their bodies, dignity scantily kept by tight-cut jewel encrusted shorts for the boy and two-piece ensemble for the girl. The meager outfit did nothing to help the less than attractive girl, who did nothing but glare at the crowd as the boy blew kisses and winked.

When District Three passed by, Finnick made sure to note the expressions on the two tributes' faces, now that he was armed with what Beetee had told him. The girl was trying to egg on the crowd, although she was largely unsuccessful because of the unimpressive mass of wires and plugs that was her costume. Finnick was pretty sure that the clip holding up her hair was actually a welding clamp. The boy just looked like he was going to be sick.

And as District Three was pulled forward by the grey stallions at the front of their chariot, Finnick saw that his tributes were sea monsters for the second time in his three years as a mentor. This time, the two had pale, aquamarine scales drawn on their skin, glittering gold like their District One counterparts.

Terrence was shirtless too, egging on the crowd as the girl had and getting a much more enthusiastic response. Somehow, the stylists had made the tributes' hands appear webbed, and the two waved to the crowd. Someone threw a rose Annie's way, and – to Finnick's great delight – it got hopelessly caught in her impressive hair.

The District Five tributes were power plant workers, District Six only served to confuse Finnick, Seven were trees, the Eight tributes seemed to be wearing curtains, Nine were swathed in bags of grain, the Ten tributes were scowling in costumes made of meat, Eleven were stalks of corn, and Twelve were wearing a poor attempt at making miners look sexy.

By the time all twelve chariots were gathered in preparation for President Snow's yearly speech, Annie had managed to disentangle the rose from her hair. By the time the speech was finished and the tributes were rolling off to the Training Center, the victors were already there. His first year, Finnick was in shock to find that Snow was fine with the mentors leaving in the middle of his speech, but it was the only time they could escape to the Training Center without anyone else noticing.

"How'd you get their hands to look webbed?" he asked one of the District Four stylists – the one with eyelashes so long they got caught in each other. She hadn't been a District Four stylist when he had won his Games, and he couldn't for the life of him recall her name.

"Latex is a stylist's best friend," the woman chirped. "Pompey," – Finnick had to assume that was the other stylist – "He used to be a special effects artist for some of the movies they make during the lull between the Games and the Victory Tour. He's…" With an exaggerated flourish of the hand, she breathed a dreamy sigh. "He's magic. Not that," her voice dropped a half octave and she fluttered her ridiculous eyelashes furiously. "You aren't just as magical, Mr. Odair."

Finnick leaned towards her, far too accustomed to invading others' personal space. "I'd say that you're quite magical yourself," he whispered, making sure to sound breathy against her ear. Keeping up appearances. Thinking about his parents back in District Four and what would happen to them if he didn't.

Never in Finnick's career as a mentor had his tributes chosen a better moment to arrive.

"Did you see us?"

Breaking away from the stylist, Finnick nodded. "You were both great." Up close, their costumes had more detail than he had seen from far away. Pearls were woven into Annie's hair. Her hands were still grasping the rose that had gotten caught in it. "Nice rose, Annie," Finnick teased.

Annie blushed and gave her best close-lipped smile. "My stylist was hoping that my hair would distract from my teeth." She made that hollow whistling noise Finnick recalled from earlier. "I guess it worked, huh?"

"Please," Terrence said. His hair was devoid of any pearls, though he did have a strange headpiece that greatly resembled a dorsal fin. "Your teeth aren't that bad."

Smiling, Annie pointed a finger at the gap in her teeth. "This is the Capitol, Terrence. By their standards, my teeth are– Who's that?"

Finnick turned, only to run into the boy in white who had been delivering messages to him for President Snow since he was sixteen. He couldn't be sure, but he thought the boy might be an Avox. Even if he still held his mouth normally, he never talked.

"I've got to…" The letter placed in his hands smelled strongly of cloying roses. "I've gotta go, guys. See you tomorrow at breakfast, okay?"

As he made his way out of the Training Center, he briefly caught sight of the puzzled look on his tributes' faces.

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><p><strong>Yeah... Not my favorite chapter... Although I have read some fics where the writer has not been fond of a chapter but I've loved it, so... fingers crossed, right?<strong>

**Thoughts?**


	6. Darkness

**Dedicated to my best friend's father, who died recently after a two-year-long battle with lung cancer.**

**Oh... By the way, I don't own THG, and SC can keep it.**

**In case you like seeing your name as much as I do... Many thanks to **CJuneK**, **xoxonceuponamidnightdrearyxox**, **SilverNight92**, **all I need 22**, **sable113**, and **el** for reviewing. To **cho-co-late moo**, **all I need 22**, **sable113**, and **ForeverLacie** for favoriting this story. To **KariHermione**, **Hinamori13**, **THatGurlx3**, **TempeJK**, and **Reason-to-live** for story alerting, and **pianoflute** for author alerting. Much appreciated, dudes!**

**These shout outs are getting kind of long, so... From now on, if you want a shout out, tell me so in a rewiew. Otherwise... **

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><p>Chapter VI – Darkness<p>

Breaking the wax seal on the envelope – a rising bird with eight arrows crushed between its claws – Finnick opened the envelope and suppressed a gag as the stench of roses became even more pungent. The address neatly printed on official parchment was a private residence, not a restaurant or party hall. That meant that tonight would be spent entirely in – Finnick glanced at the print of his client's name – Claudia Bellefleur's bed.

Finnick could never decide if those nights were better or worse than the ones he spent in fancy restaurants or at ballrooms before returning to his clients' homes. The ones who wanted him to meet him in their beds had no illusions that he had any romance with him. But the ones who took him out were usually nicer by the time they got home.

Sometimes – in the hushed moments after his client had finished with him but before he could return back to the real world – Finnick blamed himself for his bedroom profession. He knew, of course, that President Snow had forced this on him and that he hadn't elected to do it of his own accord. And he knew that there were a few other victors in the same position.

But sometimes he couldn't help but think – if he hadn't played up his good looks in his interview. If he hadn't taken off his shirt to go swimming in the lake in his arena. If he hadn't given the audience such a big show seducing the girl from District One before killing her…

Standing before a dark stone mansion that seemed to disappear into the clouds, Finnick took another glance at the address on his envelope and let the automatic doors welcome him into a lavish lobby.

An ornate marble fountain dominated the room, water cascading down the smooth stone and into a wide pool littered with Capitol coins. In the cut of the marble were statues of many cherubs, each in their own individual position. Some held swords, others spears or the traditional bow and arrow. One had what looked like a coil of wire clenched in his small, chubby fingers. Another had a large net in one hand and a majestic trident in the other.

Stepping closer to inspect the tiny trident, Finnick was struck by how familiar it seemed, just like the one he had been given during his Games…

With horror, Finnick realized that the tiny cherub clutching a trident and a net was him.

He recognized others too. The one with a coil of wire was Beetee. One of them was smiling with tapered teeth – Enobaria. Backing up, he prepared to leave – deal with Snow or no – but was stopped by a voice.

"Do you like it, Finnick?" The voice was smooth as the marble of the fountain, low and heavy but distinctly feminine. "They're all the past victors. See?" Reaching over his shoulder, Claudia Bellefleur pointed to the angel he'd noticed earlier. The one with the trident. "That's you." After a moment of pointing, the hand curved at the base of his neck and Claudia's breaths moved closer to him. The wetness of her tongue swiped behind his ear. "Isn't it beautiful?"

Finnick wanted to throw this woman off her and run away, back to the Training Center, back to before the sixty-fifth Hunger Games. "It's terrible." How could someone take the victors and depict them as _angels_? "They're all murderers."

Claudia Bellefleur's teeth scraped against his neck as she smiled. "Every last one of them." Forcibly, she turned him around and caught her tongue in his. Her long, pin-straight blonde hair tickled his face as she came up for breath. "Show me a victor that isn't."

And she was back on him – nipping and kissing and trying to undress him where he stood – but all Finnick could think of was the look in Annie Cresta's eyes when she declared that she would never kill.

He really hoped she wouldn't.

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><p><strong>It's a short one, but I thought it was a necessary one.<strong>

**Annie next chapter, guys!**


	7. Proving Something

**Disclaimer: THG is not mine, and SC can keep it.**

**Dude! You guys are awesome! Thanks for all your loving support, and here's Chapter VII.**

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><p>Chapter VII – Proving Something<p>

When Annie woke up, she was not in her bed.

Whatever she was lying in – tucked under sheets so smooth they felt how she imagined silk would feel – was too soft and comfortable and _not itchy enough_ to be her bed, and it took her a moment to realize where she was and everything that had happened. The reaping, the train ride… Annie had a very vivid memory of her prep team getting her ready for the chariot ride and applauding her for her lack of leg hair. It wasn't uncommon in District Four for the competitive swimmers to get rid of their hair in order to shave seconds off their racing times.

But now she was lying in a bed that was not hers on the fourth floor of the Training Center and trying not to think of all the tributes before her who had lain on the same mattress only to die days later.

Sighing at the morbid path her thoughts had taken, Annie slipped out from beneath the ambiguously silk covers and made her way to the enormous bathroom. Since she had left District Four, Annie had only taken one shower. The unfamiliarity of the millions of buttons and sprays and scents made her wary of a repeat. It was nothing like bathing in District Four, which typically was done once a week and consisted of filling up a bath with sea water and rubbing a coconut oil bar of soap over her body and in her hair.

She hated to lose the scent of sea salt on her skin that reminded her of _home_, but part of her wanted to enjoy any new experiences she could get in the time she had.

Because Annie – if not a bit of an idealist – was by no stretch of the imagination stupid. She knew that there wasn't much chance that she'd be any different from all the other tributes that had died before her.

It was with those sentiments that she somehow made it from the shower to the breakfast table, nibbling on a sugar cube. She'd never had many sweets before, and she was admittedly not very fond of them – unlike Mags, who popped sugar cubes into her mouth like she'd never get another chance to eat them.

Neither Finnick nor Terrence was up yet, which left Annie feeling unbearably awkward, sitting at the table with the silent Mags and the unpleasant Eros Coastas.

"So Annie," Eros said, leaning over his plate of fresh fruit and berries. He'd mentioned earlier that he didn't eat meat, which seemed ridiculous to Annie. "I'm so curious. What do you do in District Four?"

"Um…" On Annie's plate were scrambled eggs and strips of fried pig called bacon. She liked them. The saltiness reminded her of home. "What do you mean? I mean, I go to school and I fix the nets on my dad's trawling boat."

Clapping his hands, Eros grinned. "Your father has a boat? How exciting! Do you ever have parties on it?"

"Well…" Distinctly uncomfortable with the way Eros acted – which was so foreign and childlike and _Capitol_, Annie glanced at Mags. "No. During the Victory Tour, there's sometimes a party on some of the larger boats, but my dad's boat is pretty small, so…"

"Used for work," Mags supplied.

Annie smiled. "Yeah. My dad and his crew use a trawling net – that's a huge net with weights on it that scrapes the bottom of the sea – to catch fish for the canneries or for direct delivery to the Capitol. Here."

"That's so fascinating. Hmm…" Tilting his head to the side, Eros fingered his chin in thought, his nails now a shade of seaweed green. "I wonder if I've ever had any fish that your father fished."

Annie exchanged a reproachful look with Mags, who simply seemed resigned to never quite understand the citizens of the Capitol. "But I thought you said earlier that you don't eat meat."

"Oh, well, I don't."

"But fish is m—"

That was when Terrence chose to make a grand entrance, sliding into the dining area on his socks and yanking the chair next to Annie's away from the table. "You can all start partying now; I've arrived."

Annie laughed, and Mags let out her own quiet chuckle.

"So," Terrence said. He plopped into his seat unceremoniously, piling bacon and toast into his plate. "Where's Finnick? Shouldn't he be, you know, here?"

A flicker of something tender and melancholy flickered across the blue plains of Mags' eyes, so quickly that Annie couldn't be sure if she had imagined it or not. "Needs his sleep," said Mags, scooping up another sugar cube and sucking on it, pensive.

"Needs his sleep?" Terrence leaned back in his chair before Mags sent him a glare that had him tipping back towards his breakfast. "What, was he partying all night or something? Man, Annie." Turning towards her, Terrence widened his eyes in awe. "Can you imagine what it would be like to be a victor? To go to all those parties and stuff? I mean… I know that…" He trailed off, and Annie and Mags both knew what he meant.

_I know that you have to lose yourself first. That you have to kill._

He didn't dare speak the words aloud, and Annie had to wonder how everyone but her had developed a Capitol-censor that prevented them from saying anything treasonous.

"Out getting sponsors."

It took them a moment for them to realize Mags was referring to Finnick. "Oh."

"Well," Annie took a moment to crunch a piece of bacon between her teeth. If she took a drink immediately after eating it, the water almost tasted as briny as the water of District Four. "Will we see him before we go down to the Training Center?" For some reason, her mind kept jumping to that note he had gotten before he disappeared for the rest of the night, as if it had a hidden meaning that she couldn't quite grasp.

"Maybe," Mags said.

"I for one," Eros declared, eager to interject himself somewhere in the conversation. "Think that Finnick has the right idea. I don't quite understand why those of you from the districts choose to wake up at such ungodly hours. I mean, look at the clock." He gestulated to an ornate analog clock on the wall with numerals Annie had never seen before. The short hand was between _VII_ and _IIX_. "It's not even eight."

"When do you normally get up?"

"Well, Annie," said Eros. "Unless I have to escort District Four, I typically sleep in until twelve or so."

Leaning back in her chair with a half open smile, Mags chuckled. "Lunch time."

"I'm going with Mags on this one," Terrence said. "People don't usually sleep past six in District Four. Except maybe for reaping day. Too much work to do otherwise."

Eying the boy beside her, Annie realized that she didn't know much about Terrence, besides the fact that he was a Career and helped out anyone he thought needed it. "What _did_ you do in District Four anyway?"

"Me? Lots of stuff. My dad's got a pretty huge purse-seine and a crew that's just as huge. You guys might've been on it before." At that, Terrence eyed Mags. "It's called _La Belle Esprit_. He lets the mayor use it when we host the Victory Tour every year." Although Mags looked like she was about to say something, he continued. "So yeah. I mostly spend my time training or going to school, but any free time I've got I spear fish with my older brother's trident, Finnick style."

The implication – that Terrence was ready to kill people the same way he killed fish – had Annie pushing her plate to the middle of the table.

"Talking about me behind my back?"

Finnick looked tired, his eyelids drooping above dark half-moons. Despite it, though, his hair still seemed perfect and his eyes still shined with victor-sadness and a bit of mischief. As he dropped himself into the chair beside Mags, he poured himself a cup of steaming brown liquid – coffee – and dropped enough sugar cubes into his mug to feed Annie's family for a week.

Grinning, Terrence didn't seem to notice the way Finnick's shoulders slumped and how his lips were downturned despite the smirk on his face. "Just about how you're my hero."

"Flattered, as always," said Finnick. "But you could pick better."

"Enobaria."

The two mentors shared a hardy but dark laugh.

"Exactly, Mags. You could make Enobaria your hero, Terrence. Make District Four proud to be a Career district."

Terrence's District Four eyes – looking so much like Finnick but with less weariness and more innocent vitality – scrunched up in confusion. "Who's Enobaria?"

"District Two," Mags supplied. She reached for another sugar cube and seemed a bit disappointed when she realized that Finnick had dumped them all into his coffee.

"Yeah. She ripped some poor kid's throat open." Mischief grew on Finnick's face, and he directed his next words at Annie. "With her teeth."

Annie set her napkin over her plate of half-finished food and tried not to lose what little of it she had eaten. "That's terrible."

Shrugging – as if the thought of someone ripping at another human being's exposed throat with their teeth was an everyday occurrence – Finnick said, "She won, didn't she?"

"Sure," Annie replied, still trying hard not to think of the taste of someone else's blood pooling in her mouth. "But she had to lose her humanity along the way."

Shaking his head, Finnick glanced at the clock Eros had pointed out earlier. The longer hand was now hovering directly above the _IIX_. "It's getting late." – Annie, Terrence, and Mags choked down giggles, to which Finnick and Eros threw them puzzled looks – "You guys should be headed down to the Training Center soon, so we should probably get a crash course in training strategies."

"Survival."

"Yeah," Finnick said, eyes on Mags. His expression was something akin to how Annie imagined she would look at her grandmother – provided her father's mother was still alive. It was respectful. Familial, even. "You've both gotten enough training in weaponry to know what you're good at, so I'd spend most of my time learning how to survive. You know, knowing what you can eat without dying, building fires. Stuff like that." At Terrence, he said. "And make friends. It's not fun being the first person to be attacked when the Career alliance breaks up."

Terrence swatted away the comment. "Please. I'm great at making friends, right Annie?" The following smile was almost too charming to be real.

"You've got me sold, Terrence," she said.

"See? If I can get someone as preachy and squeamish as Annie to like me, I can get anyone to."

Annie nodded in– "Wait a second. I am _not _squeamish! Nor am I preachy."

"Wait." Already up and out of his chair, Terrence was trying but failing to inconspicuously evacuate the room. "Did I say 'preachy and squeamish'? I meant 'honest and sensitive.'"

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes but unable to hold back a smile, Annie pushed in her chair and followed him to the elevator. "I'm sure that's exactly what you meant."

"It was, I swear."

By the time they made it to the Training Center, the tributes from Districts One, Two, and Six were already walking about the stations, either showing off their skills with weaponry or making a pathetic attempt to light a fire. As soon as she saw the knot-tying station, Annie's fingers itched to weave all the spare rope that lay in forgotten piles into nets, but she stopped herself.

She would wait until after lunch, she decided, before asking the instructor there to teach her any knots she might not know.

Instead, Annie spent most of the morning juggling between camouflage – which she found she had absolutely no affinity for – and the plant identification station. To her surprise, there was a wealth of different stones to identify too, from magnetite to limestone – one of the few Annie could identify without the instructor's help.

Blackberries and nightlock looked a bit too close for comfort, but the instructor made sure to tell her that – if Annie had any doubts – she could tell by ripping open the skin of the berries to check the inside. Blackberries were uniform in their dark hue, but nightlock was an angry shade of burgandy on the inside.

By the time lunch break came around, Annie had made a mess of the camouflage station – enough to be shooed away by the instructor, who looked ready to pull out his own hair – and could identify at least twelve different types of edible plants and eight poisonous ones. She figured there wasn't much need to know more than that, especially if there was any chance of catching fish in the arena.

"Hey, Annie!" Terrence was calling out to her before she had a chance to take her lunch to a remote corner where she would have no company to accidently say something treasonous to. "Sit with us?"

"Uh…" _Us_ included the Careers from Districts One and Two, consisting of a ridiculously muscular blonde girl, a persuasive looking boy with eyes and hair both the color of the toast Annie had half-eaten that morning, another boy whose eyes made the rest of his face look too big, and a girl whose nose seemed to have its own personality. It was perfectly straight until it took an unexpected hook at the bottom. "Sure," Annie said.

"So." The boy from District One leaned over the table, his dark eyes flashing. "You're Annie. I'm Garnet."

Annie almost laughed aloud. Did he know that his name was one of the rocks at the plant identification station? "Garnet, as in the gemstone sometimes used to finish wood?"

Wrinkling his nose, Garnet scowled. "Who do you think you are? District Seven?"

"Anyway," Terrence interjected, his tone strongly implying that he was trying to avoid conflict. "Garnet and Tiara," – the burly blonde girl – "are from District One, and Cassius and Althea," – the boy with the small eyes and the girl with the hooked nose – "are from District Two."

"Nice to meet you," Annie greeted, not quite sure what else to say.

Cassius asked, "Are you a Career?" His eyes – so unnaturally small – made him look like one of the mindless seagulls that frequented the shore at low tide, pecking at the sand for beached fish. "Because I saw you spinning around that branch at the plant station. Looked like how you might handle a knife."

"You kidding?" Terrence was stuffing his face, and bits of bread flew from his mouth. "Annie and I've trained together for years, and I can tell you this: she's got some skills with a knife."

Inexplicably, Annie's face felt hot. "Sometimes I help my dad gut the fish before we cook them."

"So why don't you join us, huh? Make this Games the real Career pack."

"It's probably…" In her head, Annie was debating whether or not to tell the Careers anything about her plan to abstain from killing. They might target her early on in the Games knowing that she wouldn't fight back, and – even though she knew that the chances of actually winning without killing was good as none – Annie was planning on living as long as possible. Even with that weighing on her mind, though, her mouth made the decision for her. "I'm not going to kill anyone."

"_What?"_

That reaction was getting old quickly.

"Please," Althea spoke for the first time. Her voice had a low quality to it that matched the swooping beak of her nose. "I don't believe that for a second."

Before Annie could respond, they were being called back into the Training Center for a bit of post-lunch preparation. And – just as she had promised herself – Annie spent the majority of her time at the knot tying station, exchanging pleasant conversation with the instructor – who she learned was named Antigone and was engaged to be married to a man named Haemon. The only knot Annie had no idea how to make was a noose – and Antigone didn't seem inclined to teach her – so Annie ended up timing how long it took her to piece together a decent net.

Grabbing another bit of tough rope from the pile in the middle of the station, Annie encountered another hand tugging in the opposite direction. She briefly locked eyes with Althea – who had somehow managed to take a seat beside her without her noticing – and dropped the rope. "You can have it."

Eyebrows low, Althea snatched at the rope and began tying less-than-impressive knots. "What are you trying to prove?"

"I'm not trying to prove anything."

"Fine," Althea said. She stood and threw her hopeless piece of rope at Annie's head. "Whatever. Just know that – when we're in the arena – I'm the one who's going to take you down."

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><p><strong>Yes, there is irony in the fact that I number my chapters with Roman numerals and Annie can't read them. I'm not satisfied with the end of this chapter. No, I am not satisfied at all. But I'm too excited to get to the interviews! It's killing me, man! Probably more than it's killing you!<strong>

**Worse to worse, I might rewrite the ending of this chapter but not change any major plot points within it.**

**Thought?**


	8. Juggling

**Disclaimer: THG is not mine. SC can keep it.**

**I can't believe I almost forgot the audience with the Gamemakers! Probably because I had no clue what to write for it...**

Chapter IIX – Juggling

As Annie waited in the dining hall for her audience with the Gamamakers, she somehow ended up sitting across from the boy from District Three, feeling inexplicably small. She wasn't by any means a small person. In fact, she could be considered rather tall, especially compared to the malnourished tributes from the other districts. But the boy from District Three – while thin enough to be considered emaciated – was tall and had great, powerful looking hands.

So Annie crouched on her seat and peered past the boy from District Three. The boy from District Two – Cassius – had just gone in a few minutes ago with a wolfish grin that seemed to twist his face into a misshapen mess. Preparing to enter once her name was called, Althea caught Annie looking and sent a scowl across the dining room.

Annie wasn't sure what to think of the girl from District Two with the hawkish nose and gravelly voice. Over the past few days of training, Althea had tried her best to torment her, especially when Annie had the gall to take a look at some of the knives in the Training Center and try her hand at them. Annie hadn't thought to mention it to Finnick and Mags, but Terrence – who couldn't help but notice the animosity – had said something at dinner on the second night.

Finnick had said to ignore Althea until they were in the arena and _couldn't_ ignore one another, but Annie couldn't help but think that something like that was more cowardly than diplomatic. So she confronted Althea about it – right next to the knife rack, which was probably not the wisest place to do so – and ended up getting an armful of knife before she managed to knock Althea off her feet with a well-placed swipe of her foot.

Annie had been patched up by a Capitol doctor, but the gash in her left arm – closer to the shoulder than the elbow – still smarted.

Technically, the tributes weren't allowed any confrontations before the actual Games began, which made perfect sense. Because a tiff between tributes could cause one or more to sustain a physical injury as a disadvantage going into the Games – like Annie and her wounded arm.

But physical injuries weren't the only reason the rule was established.

It had been a little too easy to knock Althea over, and ever since, Annie had noticed the slightest hesitation in Althea's left foot – likely a training injury from years ago that had never healed quite right.

Tributes weren't allowed any confrontations before the actual Games began because it presented the opportunity for them to note any flaws in another tribute's form.

Taking another look, Annie noticed the girl from District Three – a small thing whose hands twitched constantly – carving something into her table with a knife.

Following her gaze to his fidgety district partner, the boy from District Three gave Annie a self-effacing smile, as if finally able to relax. "Honestly," he whispered. "She scares me a little bit."

"Do you know… what all the twitching is about?"

"I can't be sure, since I only just met her at the reaping, but I know that she works creating prototype power grids for the Capitol." The boy nodded at Annie, as if knowing that she had no clue what that meant. "So I wouldn't be surprised if she's just been electrocuted a few too many times."

"Electrocuted a few too many times…" Annie echoed. To her, it sounded pretty dangerous, but he said it as if it were a common occurrence. "How often do people get electrocuted in District Three?"

Pulling his foot up to rest on his knee, the boy said, "All the time. How often do you drown in District Four?"

"Never. Drowning typically results in death."

"Oh… My mistake."

"My name's Annie," Annie murmured. It seemed like a good enough opportunity to introduce herself to the awkward but affable boy from District Three.

"_Cord,"_ came a soft, feminine voice from behind the door to the Gamemakers, almost mechanical in its perfect pronunciation.

The boy from District Three stood. "That's me. I guess I'll see you around, Annie."

"Good luck, Cord."

Her eyes followed him until he disappeared into the gymnasium and Terrence slid into the seat he had just vacated.

"You don't wish other tributes good luck, Annie," he scolded, quite obviously holding back a snort. "It sets a bad tone for the beginning of the Games."

Scowling, Annie took a moment to inspect Terrence's face. To see the uncertainty in his eyes that never seemed to make it into his voice. She remembered the velvet of the sofa in the Justice Building, all the way back in District Four, could remember running her hands over it and thinking of Terrence. Now more than ever, she could see that duality in him. The friendly defender of the weak was warring with the haughty Career tribute.

"What are you going to do?" she asked. "Once you're in there."

His eyebrows knotted together, as if he was unsure whether she was referring to what he would do for the Gamemakers or what he would do in the arena. If she was being completely honest with herself, Annie wasn't quite sure which she was talking about herself. "I'll do what I was trained to," he said. "You?"

"I don't know."

"_Terrence."_

And he was on his feet, giving Annie a mock-salute. "I'm sure you'll think of something, Annie. Just throw them all a smile or something. I mean, you're not nearly as charming as me, but –"

"_Good luck,_ Terrence," Annie interjected, letting her grin belie the harshness of her voice.

Annie watched him walk off, unconsciously reaching to draw a fingernail over her teeth. The shell on her token – worn and white and cracked – was supposed to be her smile – according to Nicolas Abyssal – and she had strung it on her palm frond rope bracelet with little thought. The rope had been so much a part of her life in District Four, and – somehow – the unity between the two small tokens was the perfect reminder of _home._

Whistling through her teeth loud enough for the girl from District Five to throw her a disdainful look, Annie allowed herself to think about home – only for a moment.

She thought of her father and the stories he would tell her every night since she could keep her head above the ocean surface, of the look in his eyes when he realized that she couldn't promise to come back alive because she had already promised not to compromise her own humanity.

She thought of Max, of how he would still sometimes crawl into her bed with her at night when he was frightened, of the time when he was eight and she was thirteen and their mother had just died and – when he tripped and broke his wrist on the docks – it was Annie who he came running to.

Suddenly, Annie had some semblance of what she would do for the Gamemakers.

"_Annie."_

On unsteady legs, Annie made her way into the gymnasium, squaring her shoulders against the urge to pull them up to her ears.

"Um… hi." She winced at the way her voice echoed through the silent room. "I'm Annie Cresta, District Four."

Splaying her legs and putting her hands on her hips as she had seen Peacekeepers do when they were asserting their authority, she stared down the Gamemakers until they began playing with their hands and doing their best to avoid eye contact. Hues of violet and orange encompassed their irises, the crowd devoid of the shade of sea green in Finnick's eyes and Terrence's eyes that reminded her of home.

One of them cleared his throat, and – heeding Terrence's playful advice – Annie gave her most winning smile – of not with a sarcastic edge that she couldn't help when thinking about how these people felt it was right to play God. "You'll have to forgive me." Clutching rope in her hands and deftly weaving and unweaving it into a series of knots. "The girl from District Two had an accident involving my arm and a knife, but the doctors fixed me up. They're really good here. I mean, the doctors in the Capitol." She took care to keep her gaze locked on their garish clothing and colored hair. Even as she kept eye contact, though, the Gamemakers were stealthily losing interest in the tedious knot tying.

So – dropping the rope where she stood – Annie chose three knives from the rack on the wall, weighing them in her hands until she was sure they were all close enough in size and weight. She turned back to the Gamemakers, cleared her throat.

"Have you ever seen anyone juggle knives before?" she asked. Carefully, she threw one – then another, then another – knife into the air. "It's not a very common talent, I don't think. I had to practice a lot before I could get it right." There were silvery lines on the tough skin of her palms and fingers to prove it. "Because you can't just practice with rocks and shells and then switch to knives. Knives don't fly through the air the same way, and you have to make sure you don't catch them by the blade."

By now, she had gotten into the rhythm enough to sneak a glance at her audience, at their incredulous faces. Annie was sure that they'd doubtlessly gotten "talkers" in the past, Career tributes who were later known for taunting their opponents before killing them in cold blood. But Annie wasn't like that, and – with one look at the Gamemakers – she could tell that they could tell.

"My brother, Max – he just turned twelve this year, and he was so worried about being reaped that I didn't even consider my own odds – wanted me to teach him how, but I told him I wouldn't until he was older." Now they were clearly growing more uncomfortable, shifting their feet under the table and playing with necklaces and ties. So Annie continued with earnest, proud of finally finding a way to show what she thought of the Games without seeming outright treasonous.

"My father," she said. "Is a great dad, but he's never been much for discipline, so that usually falls on me." Her index finger on her right hand caught a bit of the blade, but she suppressed her wince and ignored the drop of crimson that slithered into her palm. "It used to be my mother's job to discipline my brother and me, but she died a few years ago." Now Annie did flinch, but it wasn't because she'd been nicked by a knife blade. "In childbirth when I was thirteen."

Catching the three knives in her right hand, she threw them across the room. Her aim wasn't perfect, but they all hit and stuck and Annie tried not to make a face at the humanoid shape of the target.

"Unfortunately, we don't have very many good doctors in District Four." Annie smiled sweetly at their intentionally diverted gazes. "Thank you for your time."

And she walked out.

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><p><strong>Thoughts?<strong>


	9. The Boat Annie

**Interviews are here! I enjoyed it and I hope you do too. There's a little shout-out thing in this chapter for **Story 167**. It was actually a bit of a coincedence that it was there, but I hope you find it and enjoy it anyways.**

**As always, THG is not mine, nor do I particularly want it.**

Chapter IX – The Boat Annie

By the time Finnick made it back to the Training Center after a night of bright lights and dark whispers, the sun was peeking over the distant mountains surrounding the Capitol. Even the ever present false light of the city couldn't tarnish the rich shades of gold and purple that served as a small reminder of mornings spearing fish in District Four. If he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, Finnick could almost smell sea salt and sand over the pervading scent of sex and alcohol that clung to his clothing.

His vision blurred from lack of sleep as he walked in the dining room, but his tongue burned with a few juicy new secrets about the current head Gamemaker – Dionysus Stark – and he was armed with a few more sponsors who were suitably impressed by the pair of nines that District Four had to offer this year.

"Hey, Finnick," Annie greeted as he fell into his seat beside Mags and dropped seven sugar cubes into his coffee. The soft _plunking_ noise punctuated Annie's ringing voice.

"Hey, Annie," he said. He took a moment to note that she hadn't bothered to brush her hair this morning, and it fell at odd angles over her head. He hadn't seen either of his tributes since they had left for an audience with the Gamemakers the morning before. "I heard the two of you both got nines." As far as his knowledge went, the only tribute who had done better was the boy from District One, who had squeezed out a ten.

Terrence chuckled and stabbed a hunk of waffle with his fork. "That's right. And do you know what the girl from Two – the one who stabbed Annie with a knife – got?"

"No. What?"

"An eight," Annie announced, the corner of her lips twitching. "It's terrible, but it makes me want to laugh."

"It should." Reaching across the table, Finnick dunked a strawberry in the bowl of melted chocolate that Mags must have requested earlier. "She went after you with a knife. You deserve to feel a little pleased that you did better than her. Anyone else noteworthy?"

"Garnet – the guy from One – got a ten. I'm betting it was because of the trick he said he was going to pull of with those huge, spiky weights." Food flew over the table as Terrence spoke around his waffle. "He said he was going to domino the targets or something."

"The girl from District Three and the boy from District Eight both managed to get sevens," Annie supplied, conspicuously steering clear of any sweets as she piled a few more salty foods on her plate. "I don't know how they did it, though. I was talking to the boy from District Three, and he said that the girl did something with power grids or something."

"Creative winners," Mags said. "District Three."

This time, Finnick had to give Mags a look asking for clarification.

"Beetee… Wiress…Yes?"

Finnick hadn't been alive for their Games, but he knew that Beetee had won by completely electrocuting the arena when it was just he and a few of the Career pack left and that Wiress had done something involving electromagnets to literally draw the other tributes' weapons away from them. "Yes," he echoed. "I'd watch out for the girl. District Three isn't known for winning that often, but when they do, they always do it in style."

"Good to know."

Screwing up his eyebrows, trying to think of what the girl could've shown the Gamemakers, something occurred to Finnick. "What did you guys do anyway?"

As usual, Terrence was the first to pounce on the question. "Typical stuff, I think," he said. "I threw around some weights, tied a couple of knots, killed some targets with a spear or two. Honestly," he threw his hands behind his head but refrained from tipping back in his seat. "I think it was probably more my charming good looks and stealth wit that won them over than any fancy tricks with a spear."

"I juggled knives," Annie said, her face already bright red.

Well, that was certainly a new one. "Ever heard of a tribute juggling for the Gamemakers, Mags?"

Mags shook her head with a toothless grin.

"I saw you doing that once," said Terrence. "After training was done and we were supposed to go home. It was pretty impressive, but not nine impressive. What else did you do?"

"Not much, I guess. I tied a few knots, talked about my family."

"You talked about your family?" Then again, this was the same girl who had freely mentioned collecting bycatch for consumption – which was technically poaching and punishable by whipping or death. "What did you say?"

Annie's eyes flashed dangerously. "What the tributes show to the Gamemakers is classified information."

Finnick squinted. The sudden change in the mood at the table was too much for his tired brain to handle.

"Did you talk about your mom?" asked Terrence, his voice softer than Finnick had ever heard it.

"Yeah. She came up."

"Wait." Raising his hands to the air, Eros looked between the citizens of District Four. "What about your mother, Annie?"

A whistle followed by the crushing sound of gritted teeth. "She'd dead. She died four years ago giving birth to my little sister who didn't make it past a day."

Finnick sighed, running a hand over his face. She'd insinuated that it was the Capitol's fault, he could tell by the way her eyes darkened to something as close to victor eyes as he had ever seen in someone who had never stepped foot in an arena. "So you're refusing to kill anyone because of her?" She'd be entering the arena tomorrow, and he could already visualize her death at the hands of someone who was fine with fighting someone who refused to fight back. "How far are you willing to take that promise?"

Her expression was hard enough for Finnick to wonder if she was so desperate not to get what she had called "victor's eyes" because she had realized how close she already was to having them. "The only reason you have the right to kill someone is if you're protecting someone else," she declared. "If it comes down to 'kill or be killed,' I'm not coming out of the arena alive."

The ensuing silence was heavy. Finnick refrained from telling her that no one came out of the arena alive, victor or not.

"So," Terrence's voice echoed through the lull. "Interviews tonight, right? Any advice?"

"Nothing inappropriate," Mags scolded.

"Okay. How about we do a practice run or something?"

Finnick tried his hardest not to smile. It was unfortunate when mocking Caesar Flickerman was the highlight of every Hunger Games. "Fine. Alright… So, Terrence," he began, faking his best Capitol smile and accent. "You scored a nine. Quite impressive. Now, with a score like that, do you have any worries about entering the arena tomorrow?" Maybe the way his voice rose at the end of his sentences was a little too dramatic, but he was enjoying himself more than he wanted to admit.

"Well…" Terrence crossed his ankles under his chair, something Finnick wouldn't have noticed if he weren't looking for it.

"Don't cross your ankles," he said. "It shows that you're uncomfortable with the question."

"Fine." The ankles came uncrossed and his hands went to the back of his neck. "I think my biggest worry is when to… go."

_When to go?_ Finnick snorted. "Care to elaborate, Terrence?"

"Sure, Caesar. You see, they never actually show the tributes when nature calls, right? So it wouldn't seem like a big problem. But what if…" At this, Terrence leaned forward in his chair. "What if I'm taking care of my business and some other tribute sneaks up behind me and slits my throat, huh?"

Even Mags was trying her hardest not to be amused.

"I mean, I'm not too afraid of dying, but what if I'm known for all eternity as 'the tribute who was killed while taking care of his business in the arena'? I'd never be able to live it down." He paused. "Literally."

At this, Finnick finally broke character and laughed. "I think you'll do fine, Terrence. Annie?"

Annie smiled shyly. "I don't think I'll be able to follow something like that."

"Lucky Terrence is after you." Elbowing Finnick out of her way, Mags pulled the bowl of melted chocolate towards her and dipped a finger in. "Angle?"

"She could always try just being attractive. It worked for you, right Finnick?"

"_No_." The harshness in the word had Terrence flinching into his seat and crossing his ankles again, but Finnick didn't think he sounded harsh enough. He needn't imagine what would happen to Annie if she somehow won after playing up her attractiveness in the interviews. "Annie's attractive, but she isn't shallow. I'm sure we can find something else."

They ended up settling on humble but earnest, which was close enough to how she really was to keep them all comfortable with whatever performance she would give. It wasn't until he was sitting between Beetee and Mags in the audience and Caesar Flickerman was bidding farewell to the boy from District Three that Finnick realized how hazardous it was to tell Annie Cresta to be earnest.

"So," Caesar balanced his elbows on his knees and steepled his fingers between his legs. "Annie. Annie Cresta. You know, in all my years, I don't think I've ever heard of a nickname being called out at the reaping. Tell us, Annie." He took a moment to smile at the crowd. "What's it a nickname for? Anne? Annabeth? Anemone?"

_Anemone?_ Everyone in the audience laughed, but Finnick couldn't help but think that it sounded like a jab at District Four.

"No," Annie said, reaching up to play with her pearl necklace but dropping her hands into her lap at the last moment. The same pearls were layered in her hair, and Finnick couldn't help but stare whenever she moved her head and they caught the light. "It's not a nickname for anything. My full name is just… Annie Cresta."

"Now, how did that happen?"

"Well," Annie laughed. It was only a little nervous. "I'm named after a boat that's named after another boat in a story that's named after a woman."

"Doesn't that sound fascinating," Caesar called out to the audience. "I'm sure I'm not the only one excited to hear the story behind all of that, no?" Smiling at the roar of the crowd's agreement, he turned back to his interviewee. "Do tell, Annie Cresta."

"My father has a trawling boat named the_ Annie_, and I guess you could say I was named after that boat. When I was little, he would always tell me a story about another Annie, who the boat and I were named after."

"And what's the story, Annie?" Finnick could tell that – for the rest of this interview – Caesar would be using Annie's name at any chance he got.

"There once was a man," Annie explained, "Who lived in District Four before the Dark Days with his lover…"

Knowing the cameras were on him, Finnick schooled his face into the closest thing to passive indifference that he could accomplish, but he could still feel the blood draining away. Stories about the time before or during the Dark Days never went well, unless they originated in the Capitol, which this story – going off Caesar's lack of knowledge – did not.

"His lover was beautiful, with wild eyes and flowing hair, and her name was Annie." A collective sigh ran through the crowd, and it was everything Finnick could do not to rip his hair out of his head. An earnest Annie Cresta was a terrible idea. Why hadn't Mags stopped him when he suggested it?

"They were quite happy together, fishing out of a small rowboat that the man had named _Annie_, after his lover, so that he could always have her with him, even when he was far out in the ocean, fishing all by himself."

The turn towards the worse was coming. Finnick could feel it.

"But soon, the man became a soldier in the war against the Capitol."

Annie's father was going to die. It didn't matter if she won or not.

"One day – in a very intense battle near the end of the war, with the districts losing very badly against the Capitol – the man was wounded. Badly wounded. One of his fellow soldiers carried him to Annie, so that he could die in his lover's arms, but they couldn't make it in time. By the time they reached the little cottage that Annie and the man shared, the man was dead."

Finnick leaned over to gauge Mags' expression, then Beetee's, but they weren't betraying anything but a slight tightening around the eyes. Why wasn't Caesar Flickerman interrupting her, stopping her from killing her family?

"Annie – so torn apart by her grief – took her lover and dragged him to the little rowboat named _Annie_, the rowboat that the two of them had sat in when the man had first told her that he wanted to spend forever with her. Where he had told her that her name would live forever in his heart. She took him in the rowboat, and she paddled them out to sea. She hoped and she prayed that – maybe if she rowed them out far enough – she would be able to take her and her lover somewhere they could be safe together forever."

In the deep silence of the crowd – so enraptured in Annie's treasonous story – Caesar's light breathing could be heard against his microphone. Her voice had painted a bleak but beautiful picture, and no one dared interrupt it.

"Is that how it ends?" asked Caesar, his voice low so not to shatter the hush.

"From there," Annie pushed her hair over her shoulder. It was strung with pearls again, glinting under the lights like the crest of waves in the sunset. "It depends on who's telling it. Some say that she died before she could find such a place. Others say she did but that she realized that her lover was already dead and that she could never escape, no matter how far she rowed away. Others still say she's still paddling away, still looking for a place where she could live free of fear and death but knowing that she'll never find it."

At that, the buzzer rang out over the crowd, unusually loud and uninterrupted.

After Annie's story, things ran more smoothly. Terrence's interview was a hit, and he effectively broke the somber mood that Annie had put them all in with nothing but a few well-placed words. Finnick could already hear people comparing Terrence to him. Every time they did, he had to force the scowl away.

"Well." Haymitch sank into his giant plush chair, a bottle of amber liquid dangling from his fingers. "Whose dazzling performance stood out tonight?"

The victor-rebels were gathered in a Capitol warehouse that Beetee had chosen after a sweep of the area for bugs. To Finnick's knowledge, most consumer warehouses were located in District One, but some were situated in the Capitol for quick delivery. This particular warehouse housed an inordinate amount of overstuffed recliners, and the victor-rebels had pushed them into a circle amongst the rows upon rows of straight lines. Finnick had settled himself in a black leather chair that was so smooth and plush that he was considering dragging it back to District Four with him.

"Annie Cresta," said Blight, voice soft and resigned as always. In the dim lighting, his pale, pockmarked face looked strangely haunted. "District Four."

"And why did Annie Cresta of District Four stand out?" For a shameless drunk, Haymitch had an awful lot of "teaching moments."

Finnick sighed. "Because she somehow managed to kill her father in an interview."

Leaning forward in his chair, Beetee clasped his hands, thumbs up and hovering over his lips. "Exactly," he mumbled. "You said yourself that she had a big mouth. Does it come as such a surprise that something like this happened?"

Finnick ran a hand through his hair, smoothed his slacks with his palms, bit his lip. _Annie Cresta…_ Why did they always choose someone who was guaranteed to die in the arena?

"What did she do for the Gamemakers?"

"Juggled knives," Mags said.

Chaff barked out a laugh. "Annie Cresta's got some pizzazz."

"She also strongly implied to the Gamemakers that it's the Capitol's fault that her mother died." To the few curious faces around the circle, Finnick supplied, "Childbirth. Look, I'm not saying that Annie isn't a good choice, because she is." The victor-rebels were all scooting to the edge of their seats because – like it or not – Finnick – the youngest of the group – was the authority on Annie Cresta. "But she says that she's not going to kill anyone."

A dubious murmur ran through the warehouse. These were victors; they knew better. Some of the people in this room had made the same promise years ago, only to break it as soon as the starting gong rang.

"_Well…" A flash of something fierce and familiar made its way across Annie's irises. Determination. "I'm not going to kill anyone."_

"I believe her," Finnick whispered.

**I actually had this chapter done a few days ago, but I sadly had no internet to speak of at that time. Sorry for any real or imagined wait.**

**Thoughts?**


	10. La Triste Esprit de la Mer

**Sorry it's been a while. Real life got in the way a bit. And I also got a bit distracted by a few one-shots (Check them out sometime!).**

**But then I suddenly got really sleepy and had the inexplicable urge to update…**

**So here's Chapter X.**

Chapter X – La Triste Esprit de la Mer

Despite the traffic that Annie could see through the ceiling-to-floor window on the right side of her bed, the only noise pervading the enormous room was her steady breathing and the low ticking of an analog clock on the wall. In the muted light of the room, she could make out that the smaller hand was hovering between the _III_ and _IV_, which she could assume – by placement – meant that the time was somewhere between two and three in the morning.

In only a few hours, she would be standing on a circular plate, preparing to run for her life into an arena filled with children who had no reservations to kill. In only a few hours, she could be dead.

Staring at the ceiling of the room and wishing that there were cracks she could trace with her eyes like there were over her bed at home, Annie could do nothing but think. For all her promises of keeping morals and sacrificing herself if need be, she didn't want to die. The thought of her breath leaving her and her blood staining the earth was enough to make her heart stutter in her chest.

_Annie Cresta just didn't want to kill and didn't want to die._

But there was no way of winning the Games and keeping her humanity. It was one or the other, and Annie didn't want to choose.

With a soft sigh, she rolled out of the bed and made her way into the hallway. The carpet seemed to bounce as she walked, and the plush fabric felt strange against her callused feet. A muted flickering of light played on the floor, casting a soft blue glow onto the red carpet. For a moment, her toes were buried in a rusty shade of purple before she stepped into the sitting room.

"Terrence," she hissed. His face was bathed in the light of the television screen. "What are you doing?"

"Couldn't sleep," he said, flicking his eyes away from the screen to flash her a brief smile. "You don't need to whisper or anything. We're the only ones on this floor. I think Eros is at some party or another, and Finnick and Mags suspiciously left the premises about an hour ago. They didn't really say where they were going… Hey look, Annie. It's you."

Annie watched herself take a seat beside Caesar Flickerman on the screen. This year, he was all yellow, closer in shade to dandelions than gold. Beside the garish shade of his hair and suit, Annie looked soft and pretty in a subtle shade of aquamarine. Her legs were crossed, causing the material of her dress to shimmer. It rode up to reveal a pair of sandals embroidered with pink and white shells. She was surprised to see how comfortable she looked, remembering the way her palms were sweating as she told the story of her name.

"You're pretty, Annie," Terrence whispered when the onscreen her had finished her story and began making her way off the stage.

Tearing her eyes away from the onscreen Terrence's confident entrance, Annie cocked her head at the real Terrence. "That wasn't the angle I was supposed to be playing."

He laughed, shook his head. "That isn't what I meant." His tone suggested that asking what he meant would only garner more cryptic words.

She turned back to the television and watched Terrence compliment himself in a way that sounded like he was complimenting everyone else.

And – as she leaned forward to scrutinize him more closely onscreen – his velvet duality made sense. She'd been looking at his arrogance and his selflessness as if they were two completely different and at-odds entities of himself. But – like velvet – they really were two parts of the same whole. The way he puffed himself up was a way to make other people feel more at ease. Where Annie made everyone else grit their teeth and wish that she would stop making them feel terrible, Terrence showed his own selflessness in a way that made people feel good. His cocky attitude served to show everyone that even those full of fault could be good people.

"I think I understand you," she said.

There was a flash in his eyes that Annie knew he would want her to ignore. "Well good." His voice was gruff. "I'm too great to go misunderstood."

"Yeah." Annie twisted her lips into a wry smile. "You are."

Terrence laughed. It was a deep, throaty sound. "I think we just had two successive moments. I'm glad to know you, Annie."

_Two_ moments? "Me too."

"I don't want you to die." Turning the television off and plunging them into near-darkness, Terrence sounded serious, despite his next words. "You're too pretty. You need to find a way to win."

He knew what she had promised. Why was he asking her to win? "But –"

"Yeah, yeah. I know. You need to find a way to win without killing, then. I think you're smart enough to think of something. I mean, I think you blew a few people away with your interview, right? And that was just on the spot."

"That wasn't on the spot, Terrence," Annie admonished. "That was a story my father's told me since I was too small to walk."

Getting to his feet, Terrence stretched, his hands reaching high above his head and the bones in his back popping. "Then maybe think of something like it. I dunno. I'm going to bed now." He was already walking back to his room. "It's three in the morning or something, assuming I'm reading the Roman numerals right."

"Roman numerals?"

"Sure. On the clocks. Don't ask me what _Roman_ is, but Eros said something about it earlier, and it sounds to me like the Capitol's pretty obsessed with it, whatever it is." Terrence was walking backwards down the hall now, his finger pointing directly at Annie through the dark. "You think of some winning-no-killing strategy, got it? If I'm not winning, I want you to, and that's not going to happen if you don't think of a way to have a good shot."

"You could win," Annie insisted, trying to sound as confident as he always did. She didn't want to see his face in the sky of the arena.

"Of course I could," he said. His tone – as it always was when he was being arrogant – implied that he was stating the obvious. "But you still need a plan. No one likes a martyr."

And with that, he had disappeared into his room, leaving Annie to sit in the dark across from the great reflective surface of the television screen. Her distorted reflection in the muted light made it look like an ethereal creature of the sea was staring at her, expectant. She was reminded of another story that her father had told her when she was little. Of a benign sea creature who…

"_La Triste Esprit de la Mer,"_ she whispered. She remembered the scales that were painted on her skin for the opening ceremonies and the delicate webbing that her stylist had made her hands into with the use of some plastic-rubber substance.

On autopilot, she crawled under her covers and fell into a surprisingly peaceful sleep. She would be a sea creature in the arena, and she didn't even need water to do it.

Even as she was flown in hovercraft the next morning to the industrial underground room that housed nothing but a table with her arena clothing and a metal plate that she knew led to her possible death, Annie felt peaceful. She hadn't felt this way since she was sitting in the Justice Building and waiting for her family to burst through the doors.

"See the material the boots are made out of, Annie?" Pompey – Annie's stylist – adjusted the loud straps on her boots, pulling them loose with a ripping sound and tightening them until they seemed to be suffocating her feet. His fingernails were far shorter than the claws Annie had seen on Eros Coastas' hands, each with a startlingly detailed painting brushed in vivid colors.

"Rubber," Annie declared. Back home in District Four, some of the more affluent boat owners and the Peacekeepers wore boots made of the same material, although none of them had the constricting straps that were on these.

The dark jacket that Pompey helped Annie slip onto her arms was made of the same rubbery material on the outside but was lined with soft cotton on the inside. "I'd expect rain," Pompey advised. "A lot of rain."

"A lot of rain," Annie echoed, pulling at the legs of her shorts. The boots completely covered her shins but left her knees uncomfortably exposed.

Without notice, Pompey clasped his hand around her wrist, his fingers long and tapered enough to circle completely around it. There was tenderness in the gesture that belied the suddenness. "Good luck," he said. In his hand was her token, a reassuring length of rope that reminded her of home. But when he clasped it on her wrist, his hands were too soft, not the tough texture of a fisherman's hand, coarse and callused from handling rope and scales. It made Annie feel hollow.

"Thanks," Annie whispered. She couldn't bring herself to raise her voice any further. "For everything. You made me a sea creature for the chariot ride."

"That I did."

"Have you ever heard of _La Triste Esprit de la Mer_?" Annie asked, already knowing he hadn't. "She's a sea creature in one of our legends in District Four, and I'm going to be her, in there." He could take that as he would. She didn't have the time to explain what that meant.

"I think I would enjoy hearing that story one day, huh?"

"Maybe I'll tell it." Stepping onto the metal plate, she tried not to flinch in surprise as a glass tube dropped around her. Immediately, she began rising up into the arena, darkness encroaching her vision. "Goodbye, Pompey."

"Goodbye, Annie Cresta of District Four."

Annie watched the shadows swallow up her bare knees, soaking down her shins and flowing over the rubber of her soles until – for a few brief, terrifying moments – she was ensconced in black. She closed her eyes and swallowed.

And then she felt light cut through her eyelids, a mild breeze rustling through her hair, carrying the smell of pollen. A bird called from somewhere close by, a hollow ring that was nothing like the squawk of the seagulls that settled on the masts of docked ships.

Annie opened her eyes. The countdown began.

_Fifty-nine…_

On her left was the girl from District Six. On her right was the boy from District Eight.

_Fifty-eight…_

The sky was overcast, the smell of rain and pollen making Annie almost smile. Pompey was right. There would be a lot of rain in these Games.

_Fifty-seven…_

Mountains loomed to her right, separated from the Cornucopia field by a slow-flowing river. The field stretched farther to her left, uninterrupted grass for a good thirty meters until the arena was consumed by low-lying trees.

_Fifty-six…_

Between the tributes and the Cornucopia was a ring of large rocks, each about two meters high and one meter across. They were different colors and textures. Annie could identify a few. The yellow was doubtlessly sulfur, the smoky purple amethyst.

_Fifty-five…_

Annie couldn't see the other tributes. The rocks were in the way…

_Fifty-four…_

The arena exploded.

**And we're in the arena!**

**I've never written a cliff-hanger before, so I'm not sure if this actually is one or not…**

**Thoughts?**


	11. The Girl from District Six

**This chapter refused to be written, but I needed it to get the Games started, so… here it is.**

**This also marks the beginning of the second part of this story: the arena. If you've read my other stories, you know that I don't have much experience with action scenes. So bear with me.**

**I don't own _The Hunger Games_. I will never own _The Hunger Games_. I don't particularly want _The Hunger Games._**

**Enjoy. If you can.**

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><p>Chapter XI – The Bloodbath and the Girl from District Six<p>

The fire came first, a drawn-out flash of bright, billowing light that expanded from the opposite side of the Cornucopia. A second later – as if following the very light that it was a part of – a deep roar rang through the air. It was loud enough to rustle the grass at Annie's feet.

Her ears were ringing. She couldn't hear the countdown.

On the next plate over, the girl from District Six yelled something at her, hands cupped to her lips to amplify the sound. Annie could just make out the words through the rattling in her ears. _What was that?_ Tugging at the sleeves of her coat, the girl bit her lip, eyes wide. The gesture seemed so out of place in the arena that Annie could only shrug in response. The Games hadn't started. Her hearing was clearing up enough to hear the countdown coming to a close.

"Explosives," the boy to Annie's right – the one from District Eight – murmured. "If you step off the plate early." His voice was unexpectantly high, cracking amid his words. He'd gotten a seven in training, but she couldn't spare the time to contemplate how.

_Two…_

The explosion had distracted her. Was it wiser to head towards the mountains or the trees?

_One…_

Annie stumbled off her plate and tore through the grass towards the Cornucopia, scooping up anything in her path. A tin canteen, a knife, a small pack. By the time she realized where she was headed and let out a few unladylike phrases, she was already leaning against the gold metal of the Cornucopia, catching her breath. She'd gotten there first; most of the other tributes were still stunned by the explosion that had dominated the countdown. The only one who had made it as far as Annie was the boy from District Eight, who was running along the path of the river.

The next to reach the Cornucopia was Garnet of District One, who took a moment to slash at Annie's face with a knife. She ducked to the right and came up behind him, taking satisfaction in pushing him against the metal hard enough for him to curse. The top of her ear stung. When she fingered it with her free hand, it came away bloody.

As more tributes began fighting around the supplies, Annie sprinted across the field to the low trees in the distance. Sparing a glance over her shoulder, she ran into something small and squeaky.

Brakea of District Three fell to the ground upon impact, lying at Annie's feet for the moment it took to regain her senses. Her own feet were bare, but she scampered off before Annie could give it much thought.

She kept running, past the girl from Six and the boy from Seven, who were rolling on top of each other, wrestling for a hatchet. The boy was on top of the girl, pushing the blade of the hatchet closer and closer to the girl's neck. Annie didn't want to watch, but a strangled yelp from the boy stopped her from turning away.

The girl from District Six had kneed the boy in the groin, and – while he was still writhing on the ground – buried the hatchet in his skull.

Annie gagged and sprinted faster, away from the pain and gore and screams. The trees were only four… three meters away, but all she could think about was the scene she had just witnessed. That angry act of violence couldn't have come from the same girl she had watched anxiously pull at her sleeves. The two actions didn't belong together, couldn't be reconciled in Annie's head.

She remembered what Finnick had told her on the train – almost a week ago but also so much farther in the past – when she had said she wouldn't kill anyone.

"_That's what a lot of people say, but once you're in the arena, you'll forget all about that promise."_

Of course, Annie had watched Hunger Games from previous years, seen the ruthlessness that so many teenagers had exhibited, but it was different to _be there_, to experience it first hand. As she stumbled through the unfamiliar terrain of the woods, she breathlessly whistled through her teeth. She refused to believe Finnick's words. There was no way that human beings were this violent and coldblooded by nature. There was no way that it all just came down to "kill or be killed."

Or was there?

Annie shook her head and stopped running, just in time for her foot to catch in the underbrush and send her sprawling down a steep incline.

All around her, fallen leaves and twigs and pebbles cried as she ran tumbled them, some taking their revenge by scratching at her face and hands and awkwardly exposed knees. Annie gripped her possessions tightly in her hands. She made the mistake of opening her eyes for a moment, catching a blur of browns and greens before a spray of dirt drew her vision back under her eyelids.

Her descent was halted by something large and hard that forced the breath from her lungs when she hit it.

It was a huge stone – garnet by the color and texture – sitting in the middle of the woods. Taking her knife, Annie chipped away at its side, and a piece broke off into her hand. She slipped it in her coat pocket and sat down to take an inventory.

First came injuries. Her ear was still bleeding, and she had to bite her tongue to quell her queasiness. Maybe Terrence was right about being squeamish. Biting harder, she tenderly groped at the source of the pain and scowled. The tip of her left ear had been sliced clean off, serving to show just how close she had been from dying at Garnet's hand.

Her only other visible injuries were surface scratches. The smaller toes on the foot she had tripped on throbbed, but Annie had broken her toes before, and she wasn't too worried.

Next came the items she had managed to nab from the Cornucopia. The canteen was – of course – empty, but it was a decent size and had a carrying strap. Annie slipped it over her shoulder and propped the pack on her knees.

It was bright yellow canvas, with a drawstring top instead of the conventional zipper. In a way, the simplicity reminded her of home in District Four, and she moved the coarse material to stroke it against her cheek. Until she remembered that – even in the silence of the wooded valley – she wasn't even close to being alone.

So she yanked at the drawstrings and took careful stock of items inside. A pair of socks, adhesive tape, an empty water bottle the size of her fist, batteries without anything to go with them, and a small bag of dried meat.

The first thing Annie did was treat her severed ear by cutting off a strip of one of the socks and sticking it on with as little adhesive tape as she could use. There was no way of telling how much she would need it later on, and if Annie had learned anything from watching the Games, living in the districts, if was that rationing was important.

Eight low booms signified that the bloodbath at the Cornucopia had ended. Their were eight tributes who had already lost their lives. The boy from District Seven was one of them.

She felt crooked when she stood and began stumbling down further into the valley, the pack over her shoulders, canteen at her side, and knife in her hand. The toes of her right foot ached with each step, and the uneven terrain wasn't helping. But she followed the soft whisper of running water that echoed from the base of the valley, so soft and distant that Annie probably wouldn't have noticed if she wasn't so accustomed to the sound of rushing water and wasn't so desperate to find anything that reminded her of home.

As she walked, Annie got caught up in the terrible beauty of the arena, the way bird calls and running water and rustling leaves played together to create a symphony of both foreign and familiar sounds. She had never heard the sound of so many trees in the wind at once, and the vastness of it reminded her of the ocean crashing on the sand.

Some trees were large with heavy green leaves that clapped against each other, while others were short and dominated by teardrop shaped petals that silently chimed like bells. It didn't take long for Annie to realize that – once she stripped the drooping, malleable branches of their petals – the small trees made great material for rope.

So she gathered up branches as she walked along, working them into rope with lithe fingers that moved without thought. For a while, she whistled happy sea shanties through her buck teeth as she trudged along. But then she realized how that called attention to herself and stopped.

Relying on muscle memory to weave and maneuver the branches into rope, Annie spent her time thinking of District Four. Of both inane things – like the sound of the _Annie_ slicing though the water – and meaningful things – like the smile on her father's face whenever he saw her waiting for him at the docks. Anything to keep the thirst away.

She thought of her brother and his meek compassion. She thought of her mother and her rope and her father and his stories. She compared her own rope weaving to that of her token and thought of how she was a product of both her father and her mother and would play the Games as such.

When the cannon blast tore her from her thoughts, Annie couldn't help but violently flinch.

She kept walking, looking for water.

That night, Annie watched the faces of the dead hover in the sky. Brakea of District Three and the boy from District Five rolled past. When the girl from District Six appeared, she almost missed the rest.


	12. High Class

**_The Hunger Games_ is not mine. It never will be. I don't even want it. You can consider this my final declaration throughout this story. If you feel the need, mentally copy and paste this at the beginning of each chapter.**

**Last chapter wasn't fabulous, but this one has promise. Our good friend Finnick meets someone who might be relatively familiar to any post-modern literature fans reading this.**

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><p>Chapter XII – High Class<p>

Second only to impersonating Caesar Flickerman, Finnick's favorite part of the Games was the coffee. His first time as a mentor was spent dropping sugar cubes into the dark substance and pouring cup after scalding cup down his throat. Needless to say, the District Four tributes had not lasted as long as they probably could have, and Finnick learned a valuable lesson about moderation that year.

This year, Finnick slouched in one of the small plastic chairs in the District Four cubicle of the Games Room. In the past, he had spent his time in one of the adjacent alliance rooms, arguing with Brutus and exchanging a sympathetic look with Cashmere whenever the boy in white with rose-scented envelopes came for one of them. Finnick was never sure which he hated more – the arguing or the sympathy.

But this year, only one of the District Four tributes was part of the Career alliance, and Mags had kindly offered to speak on Terrence's behalf in the alliance room that was always used for the Careers.

So Finnick sat alone in the District Four cubicle, alternating between a live feed of Annie Cresta standing on her plate and the video that all of Panem was seeing projected on their television screens. Finnick couldn't help but notice the way Annie's eyebrows pinched together with tension she probably didn't even realize she had. Her hair was tied back from her face, just as billowy and bushy and revealing a strong jaw that had been hidden before.

This year, the Gamemakers had gotten a bit creative with the arena, positioning twenty-four various types of stones between the tributes and the Cornucopia. Finnick had no doubt that such an assortment of bright gold and lavender and rose hadn't been in an arena since the poisoned beauty of the second Quarter Quell.

Between Terrence and the boy from District Three, though, there was a stone colored transparent red. That color had been in every arena since the creation of the Games.

As the countdown began, Finnick removed the bracelet from his arm and placed it on the countertop, just as Mags had taught him to three years ago. The bracelets were linked to a tribute's heartbeat and made various ungodly noises every time that tribute's heartbeat dropped too low or rose too high. Mags had carefully explained to him that it was better to keep the thing off during the bloodbath, lest it give him a heart attack during the hurried first minutes of the arena.

The countdown made it to fifty-four before an explosion rocked the image on Finnick's screen.

Across the room, Haymitch of District Twelve and Kern of District Ten simultaneously swore.

Finnick stood, peering over the walls of his cubicle. He'd never quite understood why they needed them in the first place, considering how easy it was to hear through them and look over them. "What happened?" he asked.

In the cubicle to his left, Beetee took off his glasses and cleaned the lenses with the hem of his shirt, his eyes never leaving the screen. "Brakea," he said, voice hollow. "She took off her boots and threw them at the two plates next to her. They exploded." He sounded frazzled, as if the concept of using the explosives in the arena to a tribute's benefit was something he had never thought of. It probably was.

"Wow," Finnick murmured, suddenly glad that neither Annie nor Terrence were standing near Brakea of District Three. The victor-rebels' plans could have ended before they even had a chance to start, and he'd hate to see either of them die that way. Or die at all, really, no matter the inevitability. "Did you know she was going to do something like that?"

Beetee shook his head, his face ashen. "I had a hint that she was going to do something like this. She told me – yesterday before we met up – that she was going to be a brake."

"A brake?"

Wiping his palms on his pants, Beetee smiled the way he did when he was about to give a small lesson. When Finnick had first met Beetee, Mags told him that the older man had wanted to be a teacher his whole life, until the Games changed everything. "A brake, as in a device for slowing or stopping a vehicle or other moving mechanism. She was using a metaphor to explain the tactic she planned to deploy in the Games."

Beetee's smile changed into that of a proud parent. He always made sure to take care of and understand his tributes before they entered the arena. When Finnick began mentoring three years ago and saw how other mentors treated the tributes like pawns or hopeless causes, he had promised himself that he would be as much like Beetee as possible.

"Beetee," Catyla – the other District Three mentor this year – hissed. She had won the fifty-second Games by using the mica deposits in the arena to create a reflective concentration of light that blinded the other tributes. Killing all those blind, helpless tributes in cold blood had done something to her – like it did to a lot of Careers. She was meaner than most of the non-Career victors. "The countdown's ending."

Finnick fell back into his chair, causing it to creak under his weight. Most of the tributes were still shaking their heads and rubbing their ears, but Annie – being the farthest from the explosion – was already positioning herself to take off. As soon as the countdown hit one, she began running towards the arena and Finnick's bracelet began buzzing like crazy.

He cursed and fumbled to hit the stop button on the bracelet. He hadn't had much time to discuss tactics with his tributes, but he'd thought that Annie would have enough presence of mind not to _run headlong into the bloodbath_.

Annie's blood was the first shed of the Games – when Garnet cut off the tip of her ear at the Cornucopia.

It seemed to bring her back to her senses and – with that – she ran off towards the woods. She made the mistake of stopping halfway there and watching the girl from Six kill the boy from Seven – to which Blight did nothing but sigh loudly and take a swig from his flask. Annie's face screwed up for a brief moment then steeled over again. Judging by the look in her eyes that he had seen before – the look that was so similar to the one he saw in the mirror each day – this wasn't the first time she had stared death down from afar.

In the District Three cubicle, Catyla cursed when Garnet slashed at Brakea the same way he had at Annie earlier. Only Brakea didn't duck in time. "She actually had potential," Catyla said. "I'm leaving. The boy's just a waste of effort." With that, Finnick could hear her heels clicking on the tile floor, getting softer and softer the farther she went.

"His name is Cord," Beetee muttered under his breath.

After she made it into the woods, watching Annie was largely uneventful. She whistled through her teeth, tied length upon length upon length of rope, and kept walking for hours in search of water.

She could weave together rope quickly. Finnick estimated that – by the time the anthem began playing and Annie stopped to peer at the faces in the sky – she had made about seventy feet of rope. Definitely enough to last her throughout the Games, no matter what she did with it.

She only stopped twice before she reached the river. Once to relieve herself – to which Finnick looked away, bashful despite the fact that he had seen every part of the female anatomy that a man could possibly see – and once to watch the faces of the dead appear above.

It was only once she got to the river that she let her exhaustion show, falling to the ground at its bank with rope trailing behind her. Feebly, she drew it into the canvas sack on her shoulders and uncapped her canteen. Finnick could hear the bubbling and babbling of the river from the small speakers situated in his cubicle. He could only imagine how loud it was where Annie knelt, her rubber boots inching closer to the splashing water as she dipped her canteen deep.

Gasping, she flinched out of the water and squinted at it, leaning forward to get a better look. For a brief moment, Finnick thought she might have been bitten by something, but she seemed unhurt. The shot changed cameras abruptly enough that he felt a spike of nausea shoot through him, and he saw what she saw.

The fish in the river. They were acting… wrong.

Finnick didn't know much about fresh water fish, but he had always assumed that – by virtue of being fish – they acted about the same as the ones back in District Four. In his Games they had. These fish flopped around under the surface as they should have only on land. There was something wrong with them, something – knowing the Gamemakers – that had to do with the drinking quality of the water.

He cheered when Annie heaved a sigh so loud he could hear it over the river and promptly dumped the water in her canteen back in. If she drank it without iodine, she'd probably die.

Annie was back to making more rope and scouting for a place to lay down camp when Finnick smelled the roses. He turned, and there was the little boy.

The Avox boy's white garb was as spotless and perfect as usual – no less for the personal slave of the president – but his mop of dark hair was disheveled and his eyes were a tad too bright. Handing Finnick the rose-scented envelope, he flew out of the Games Room as he never had before.

"What was that?" Finnick murmured. But he didn't have too much time to dwell on it; he had a client to please. He recognized the name.

Tonight, the client was a regular, a married woman whose husband was a senator and spent quite a bit of his time during the Games having drinks with his colleagues at a local bar. She was the type who always asked Finnick uncomfortable questions, who saw his status as victor as something to marvel at. It made it easier to pull secrets from her – even though she often had none – but he always felt more violated than usual when he was with her. Not so much for the physical acts but all those questions that brought back too much.

"You must have secrets about the arena. Or things you don't want to talk about." Valencia trailed her long fingernails over Finnick's bare chest very lightly, the white and purple lacquer clacking together as she walked them over his heart.

"There are no secrets," he whispered, a conspiring smirk painted under his nose. "In the arena."

Valencia pouted and scrambled onto him. She moved her nails to trace his jaw. "I'm _proud_ of you. Did you know that, Finnick?"

"You should be," he responded. "It took nine stressful months in the womb to come out looking this charming." On principle, he never initiated contact unless demanded to, so it was she who started the kiss between them, all tongue and no lips.

"Are you sure…" – Valencia slid her tongue up his neck – "That you have no secrets from the arena? What about…" – Now she was at his ear, taking the lobe between her teeth – "What you did to that girl from One?"

Finnick almost sat up and pushed her off him, which probably would've resulted in the death of a loved one. People could never forget that girl from District One, could they? They would always remember what he did to her and what she didn't do for him.

"You know," Valencia whispered, still much too close to his ear. "A lot of people still say that you weren't…" Her hand dropped from his neck and shoulder and squeezed somewhere very unsettling. "Because you don't like the girls. Is that true?"

Finnick knew Valencia was asking this because she was curious and not because she wanted him to stroke her ego and tell her that she was perfect for him. It made him more uneasy than if she was "Let's not talk about that," he said.

"So it is?" She pressed closer to him, as if the answer she was expecting would make him even more attractive.

Finnick pushed back into her impossibly soft bed as far as he could. "I don't know." It was never pleasurable, no matter with whom or what or when. At first it had been something so vile that he went back to his house and showered for hours and threw up in the sink. Then, it was still terrible but just… without meaning.

Finnick had never had a chance to know anything.

"What about that tribute this year? Your Annie girl? Do you find her pretty?"

"Not as pretty as you." The response was automatic. He would never be able to find Valencia's lavender skin and fire-truck hair attractive, no matter what he knew. Annie was different. He had wanted to touch that windswept hair since he first saw it, to reach into her eyes and pull out the seaweed and fish and _home_ there. Even the gap in her front teeth was endearing, in its own way.

Valencia glanced over her shoulder at the massive floor to ceiling screen behind her. There was no sound, but the images clearly showed Terrence and the other Careers returning to their campsite at the Cornucopia for the night. Terrence had fared well at the bloodbath and now brandished an impressive looking spear and a heavy pack.

"District Four." Valencia purred and smacked her lips. "There must be something in the water out there."

"Yeah," Finnick murmured. "Salt."

She laughed.

"Now," he hummed, smoldering the best he could. "What about _your_ secrets? I've already heard about Dionysus Stark's nasty drinking problem."

"Not yet." Whatever clothing Finnick had left was starting to disappear from his body. A magician's sleight-of-hand trick. "We're going to have some fun first."

It wasn't until Valencia was exhausted – practically sleeping on top of him – that he managed to get what he wanted out of her.

"They say that they'll be replacing Dionysus next year, especially if the ratings for these Games aren't good. He's getting old and he's nearly as bad as your Mr. Abernathy when it comes to his liquor. That's why the arena is so fascinating this year, with all those different types of rocks. Because Dionysus wants good ratings this year. Shame really, that he's going. He's been Head Gamemaker for years. Was for your Games, you know. But the most likely candidate – a young man, Seneca Crane – he has potential."

Most of this information Finnick had heard before, but not all of it. "Who's Seneca Crane?" That name was new.

"Oh, you don't know of the Crane family? I suppose you wouldn't, since you're from _the districts_."

Finnick chose to ignore her tone. Even considered the Capitol's golden boy, he was still from the districts, and that would always be a source of distaste in the Capitol.

"The Cranes," Valencia began. "Are a rather old family. Good friends of the Snow family for years."

Finnick perked up, almost sliding her off his chest. "Snow?"

"As in our dear president, yes. He and Seneca Crane's father attended grade school together, for a while."

"For a while?" Finnick had spent three years in the beds of Capitol high class; he knew what words to look out for.

Heaving a weary, melodramatic sigh, Valencia fell off him and bounced briefly on the soft fabric of the bed. Her hair – bright red and cropped to her shoulders – was plastered to her face, and her eyes were lidded. "I don't feel like talking right now, Finnick," she whined. "Let's watch the Games."

Finnick scrambled to regain her attention. He was so close to learning a new secret about Snow… "It's the middle of the night," he argued. "The tributes are probably all asleep."

"Your Annie girl isn't."

Sure enough, Annie Cresta was dominating the television screen, looping a section of her rope around a tree branch and hiding it from view. Finnick watched her pull together a knot at the base of the tree and step away. After a moment of consideration, she pulled the canvas bag off her back and threw it in the general direction of the tree.

The result was instant. The moment the bag touched the ground, it was wound up in rope and pulled up by the tree branch, suspended in the air and swaying in the breeze. In the dark, it resembled the misshapen head of a hanged man, even if the knot holding it up wasn't a noose.

Annie grinned, her teeth white in the pale moonlight that washed through the overgrowth. Finnick had never seen her neck so pale and exposed. It made her look ethereal, otherworldly. "_La Triste Esprit de la Mer_," she whispered, so quietly that Finnick would have thought he had imagined it if he hadn't seen her mouth move.

Somehow, she managed to look right into the eye of the camera, and – for that brief moment – Finnick and Annie shared a knowing smirk.

* * *

><p><strong>Thoughts?<strong>


	13. Zyse

**I was always taught that if you somehow manage to work through your writer's block in a story, you enter a new layer of inspiration you hadn't had before. Consider Chapter XI my chapter of writer's block. Consider this new inspiration.**

* * *

><p>Chapter XIII – Zyse<p>

In the arena, it rained every night.

The first night, it had caught Annie by surprise, catching on her face as she inspected one of her traps. She'd set up seven of them – using the tough length of rope that she had fashioned from tree branches – in a rough circle around her camp, and she had spent the past two days picking berries from the sparse bushes that littered the perimeter of her campsite, breaking them open and thumbing at their insides to distinguish what type they were before eating them. Three of the bushes grew lush, fleshy blackberries. Two grew nightlock that looked just as delicious.

When it rained, Annie would hold her canteen steady and stick out her tongue to catch drops as they fell from the heavens. Every few hours or so, she patrolled the perimeter, checking the traps she had set up. One of them had caught a plump creature with round ears and a defined nose. She could only assume that it was some type of gopher or possum, but she couldn't know for sure. They didn't have creatures like that in District Four.

She carefully untangled the creature and did her best to skin it and take out all the organs she didn't think were edible. Glad she'd spent so much time at that station in training, she made a fire and roasted the gopher over it. Annie couldn't be sure when it was cooked enough to safely eat, so she left it over the fire until the outside became black and singed.

So far, everything was completely peaceful, even comfortable. With all those berries and the gopher and the food from her pack, she was eating well – if not sparingly. And the rain each night kept her hydrated. The only tribute that had died in the past few days was the girl from District Eight, whose cannon shook the arena in the middle of a nightly downpour.

Everything was peaceful.

Something had to go wrong.

Annie was lying in the soft foliage that cushioned the forest floor, her hood up and her hands behind her head. Above, tiny birds hopped from branch to branch in the trees, joyfully calling to each other in the late-afternoon sunlight. And then they stopped moving entirely, cocking their small heads as if listening to something that Annie couldn't hear.

A scream ripped through the silence, so loud it caused the birds to fly away in panic.

Hand slithering in her pocket to grasp her knife, Annie stood and turned her head towards the scream. It sounded young. And feminine. She angled her feet to run and hesitated, conflicted. If she opted out of helping someone about to be killed, did the murder indirectly fall on her? It would be stupid to run headlong into danger with nothing but a short knife in her hand, but if someone was…

Someone was crashing through the woods, getting closer and louder with each step. Annie darted in the direction the scream had originated from, the knife poised for throwing in her right hand – just in case.

A yelp, and Annie pushed through the trees, only to find a young girl flailing in one of her traps. She caught sight of Annie and took a deep breath, preparing to yell out again until Annie rushed forward and clamped her hand over the girl's mouth.

"Shh. Calm down," she hushed, holding fast to the girl's face despite all the thrashing. "I don't want to hurt you. I'm not going to kill you." Taking a breath deep enough for her shoulders to rise, Annie recited, "I have food and water and a lot of these traps set up for protection. We can team up, if you promise you won't kill anybody." This part of the plan made Annie a little bit uncomfortable. Was she any better than the Capitol if she was pushing her views on others like this? She cleared her throat. "If you don't want to promise that, I'll leave you hanging here, but I'll make a promise to you: I'll feed you and give you water and come to help you if you yell for me no matter what you choose."

The girl stopped resisting and nodded.

Carefully removing her hand from the girl's mouth, Annie asked, "Do you promise you won't kill anyone?"

Without pause, the girl swallowed and squeaked, "Yes!"

As if approaching a startled animal, Annie tucked her knife pack in her pocket and slowly began untying the complicated series of knots that held the girl in the air. "I'm Annie," she said. "I'm from District Four."

"I know," the girl whispered. Her eyes were wide and dark and followed every movement of Annie's hands on the makeshift rope. "You told that story about the soldier and boat during the interviews."

"I did," said Annie. Her fingers began undoing the host of ties around the little girl's wrists, which were small and tragically waiflike. She looked about twelve – Max's age, but with none of his gentle strength. "What's your name?"

"Zyse." The name fell from the girl's tongue in a hiss, the way Annie had always imagined angry snakes sounded. "Marcus and I were teamed up, but then the boy from Eleven snuck up on us and killed Marcus and I ran away from him as fast as I could." Zyse spoke in a rush, as if the words were a poison she had to remove from herself immediately. "I'm a fast runner, and I think I lost him, but then I got caught in your trap, and –"

"You're safe now with me," Annie reassured. She unraveled the last knot and caught the girl in her arms, staggering a little. "I need to reset this trap, but you can pick a few blackberries off the bush behind me if you're hungry." Already, she was restringing the tree branches and laying down the foundation again.

"Are you sure those are blackberries?" Zyse asked. "Marcus and I weren't sure…"

"Break it open and tell me what color it is in the inside."

After a moment, Zyse murmured, "It's black in the inside. Or a dark purple, I guess."

Annie wiped the dirt off her hands. Dark, grainy streaks of it clung to the material of her shorts. Cocking her head and furrowing her brows, she took a moment to inspect her handiwork before kicking leaves over it. Now it was hidden from view. "If you don't believe they aren't poisonous, I could eat one. If you want."

Wordlessly, Zyse handed her a blackberry, and Annie allowed herself to savor the tangy flavor that exploded in her mouth when she broke it with her teeth. "Delicious." She smiled and watched the smaller girl pluck berries right off the bush and stuff them into her mouth. "You're from District Nine, right?"

Zyse nodded, her mouth still full. Purple stained her lips.

"That's grain." They didn't teach much about the other districts in school besides their main industries. "What's it like there?"

As soon as the question came from her mouth, Annie realized how dangerous it was. Unless there was a fight going on somewhere else, Annie and Zyse were doubtlessly on television right now, and Annie had the impression that talking about life in the districts was a risky move. She'd been trying to notice things like that – ever since her father quietly hushed her in the Justice Building – but that had done nothing to prevent her from saying it.

"It's not bad, I guess. I mean… It's home." Zyse's tone was saturated with longing. "I go to school, and after that I work in one of the packaging factories." She must have seen Annie furrow her brows, because she continued. "District Nine is split up in three parts. There are the harvesters, the processors, and the packagers. I package the tesserae that get sent to all the districts."

"That's what you do?" The thought of spending her day in a factory made Annie feel antsy. She didn't know if she could stand it if she worked in the cannery back in District Four. "I thought you'd be outside more in District Nine."

Zyse's skin had a subtly dark undertone that obviously wasn't from exposure to the sun. She was considerably lighter than tributes that usually came from District Eleven, but she was darker than the coal mining tributes of District Twelve. "I don't spend very much time outside," she said. "But my mother does. She works harvesting in the fields. One time – when she was pregnant with me – she was reaping in the fields, and she stepped on a snake. It hissed and almost bit her. She says that's how I got my name, that it's the sound the snake made when she stepped on it."

Annie felt a brief flash of panic and fear slice through her at the word _pregnant_. "They made your mother work in the fields when she was _pregnant_?" All she could think of was her mother and bed sheets stained red.

"Yeah." Zyse tilted her head sideways and inspected Annie's face. It was already darkening to dusk, and the little girl's eyes looked impossibly dark. "Why wouldn't they?"

"I don't know." Annie tried to think of something else to ask. "What about the rest of your family? What do they do?"

"I don't have any more family. It's always just been me and my mother. What about you? District Four is fishing, right?"

"Yeah." In the serenity that was the arena so far, Annie hadn't had much to do besides think of her family and District Four. "You remember my dad has a trawling boat?"

Zyse nodded enthusiastically. "Named the _Annie_, after your story."

Shaking her hand, Annie let herself chuckle a little. "It's not _my_ story. But yes, that's its name. He has a crew and goes out into the ocean every day to pull fish out of the water with this big net called a trawling net. There's a sonar machine on the boat that tells them where to find the most fish to catch."

"That's cool!"

"But only Peacekeepers are allowed to use it. Even touching it is a criminal offense." Annie lay back down in the underbrush she'd been on earlier. Most of the leaves were soft and still green, but the few dead ones crackled under her weight. She turned to face Zyse, who sat cross-legged about a meter away. "I mend the net, and sometimes I even make some that I sell in the market in town. The fact that my dad owns a boat means that we're… well off." She felt bad about saying it, but it was true.

"Is it just you and your father, then? Like me and my mother?" Zyse fiddled with her thumbs and chewed a strand of her hair, which was brown – as close to black as it could get – and stringy.

"I have a brother too. Max." Annie thought she might miss Max most of all, the way he smiled with those impossibly crooked teeth and the devastated look on his face when Annie sat with him in the Justice Building. "He's little, so," – even as she said it, she knew that he was probably about the same age as Zyse, who worked in a factory all day – "He collects shells on the beach to sell to District One, and lately he's gotten into spearing fish out in the shallows. I tried to teach him how to tie knots, but he's like my dad – not very good at it. I've been meaning to try again, though."

Zyse pursed her lips. "If your father isn't good at tying knots, then who taught you?"

"My mother." Annie cleared her throat. "She isn't around anymore."

"Oh." Zyse cringed, and their conversation fizzled away for a long time. After about ten minutes of watching the birds flit from tree to tree, she asked, "How did you get the idea to make all these traps around this place? That was really clever."

Rolling back to a sitting position, Annie reached out and broke a few thin branches off one of the lower trees, stripping them of their white petals. The soft, fragrant scent of them swept into her sinuses for a brief moment until they were overcome by the smell of fresh dirt and her own sweat. "A character in one of the stories my father always used to tell me did something like it."

"A story?" The little girl leaned forward and laid her spindly arms on the ground in front of her. "Will you tell me it?"

Unbidden, the image of Pompey – leaning down to clasp her token on her wrist, smiling at her in the face of the shadows of the Games, murmuring that he hoped to hear the story one day – flashed behind Annie's eyes. "If you think you'd enjoy hearing it." She couldn't be sure whether she was murmuring those words to Zyse or Pompey, couldn't be sure if she even said them out loud.

"I want to hear it," Zyse mumbled. She grinned shyly, displaying close-to-perfect teeth, marred only by a single crooked lateral incisor.

"Long ago," Annie began. She could already hear the familiar, comforting sound of waves lapping up on the beach, trailing the sand with great, wet kisses. "Before the districts or the Capitol even existed, fishermen and pirates would travel across the world trying to find treasure deep in the ocean or food to feed their families." The first drop of rain slapped against Annie's cheek, echoing the playful sea spray. "The ocean would gladly allow them to take from her, but – in return – these fishermen had to keep her clean and healthy, make sure that the beautiful and exotic creatures that lived in her waters would live and thrive."

"What type of exotic creatures were they?" Zyse asked. Her tone was soft, reverent, and her eyes were vast and tumultuous as a storm at sea.

"There were…" Annie had to give this thought, imagine the colorful, scaly species of fish that no longer existed. "There were fish of all sorts of colors, some bright orange, others the shade of the sky at exactly dusk – when purple and pink and blue and red clash together in the sky. Some with smooth skin that was slippery outside of the water and others with scales that pricked your fingers like serrated knives.

"For a while, the fishermen followed the ocean's requests closely, protected her beaches from their trash and her waters from their burden. But after many years passed, they steadily forgot their promise. They let harmful substances leak into the ocean and drain the life from the fish and plants and whales that lived in her. They poured toxic waste into her and let their plastics float over her like angry pustules on the soft, fervent skin of her waters."

Annie wasn't sure where the lyrical prose was coming from. She could only hope that she was channeling her father's story-telling in her own words. She could only hope she was painting a masterpiece like he always did.

"But instead of growing angry and vengeful, the ocean grew sad. She still loved these men who lived by her, even though they were doing such wrongs. She knew that they didn't know better, that her wish had been lost to time and human selfishness."

"So what did she do?"

She grinned at Zyse's tone. It reminded her of what she always asked when her father reached this part of the story.

"_So she just let them do that to her, Daddy?"_

"_Oh no. Of course not, Annie. __She became _La Triste Esprit de la Mer_."_

Annie swiveled her head in every direction, hoping that her gaze caught on one of the cameras hidden throughout the arena. This was as much for the audience watching in the Capitol – and all of Panem, really – as it was for little Zyse of District Nine. "She became _La Triste Esprit de la Mer_."

Zyse scowled, thick eyebrows invading the space above her eyes. They grew thinner towards the middle, ending in a pair of soft tufts. "La Trees Espree duh… What?"

"_La Triste Esprit de la Mer,_" Annie repeated, careful to pronounce each word precisely and correctly. "It's from an old language. It means 'The Sad Spirit of the Sea.'" As she spoke, she thought of her home, its grainy floorboards and table with four neat chairs.

"But what does that _mean_? What did she _do_?"

"_La Triste Esprit de la Mer _would take these men and trap them with her in the ocean, but she would not kill them because they did not deserve to die." It was this line that inspired the set of snares surrounding Annie's paradise. "Instead, she would plead with them to change their ways, to learn to keep the ocean thriving and to stop their terrible actions. Sometimes, they would promise to do so, and she would set them free." At this, she felt the corner of her lips twitch upward into a smile as she met eyes with the girl from District Nine.

"Other times," she murmured, feeling the mood drop like the temperature in the face of the cold-front before a tempest. "They would refuse. But she wouldn't kill them as some other spirits might." That was important. That was what struck Annie when she was staring at her reflection in the television screen after Terrence had drifted off to bed. "She would keep them close to her and give them everything they needed to live in luxury. She would feed them and give them all the company that they needed, but she would not give them the chance to soil the waters with their waste."

Silence pervaded like a persistent fog. Rain was shattering against the ground and the trees and their raincoats, but it remained ambient noise behind them. Annie pulled out her canteen and took a swig from it before offering it to Zyse, who drained the rest then dutifully held it up to the sky to collect more water. The unfinished quality of the tale hung between them. But the rest of the story wasn't important. Didn't matter.

"Is that it, then?" Zyse whispered. "Is that the end?"

"_La Triste Esprit de la_ _Mer_ regained the health that she needed to survive, but she never quite returned to the untouched, exotic beauty she once was. And now, we can look out upon her waters and hear her whispering to those she keeps with her in the crashing of the waves."


	14. Choice

**You know, when I started this story in March, I promised myself and you all that I'd update every week.**

**This is a serious problem.**

**I'm updating more than once a week.**

**This is the third time this week I've updated.**

**What is _wrong_ with me?**

**Actually, you know, I blame **SilverNight92** and **Song of Grey Lemons**. It's all their fault. Did you know that **Song of Grey Lemons** is the only person ever to review every single one of my THG stories? And that this chapter and the last wouldn't have existed without **SilverNight92** reminding me that I still hadn't explained what **_**La Triste Esprit de la Mer**_** was?**

**Way to go, guys. Look what you've done to me.**

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><p>Chapter XIV – Choice<p>

As the final drops of rainfall bounced off the leaves above them and slithered to the forest floor, Annie and Zyse turned their eyes to the sky. The anthem blasted through the arena loud enough for branches to shiver and animals to skitter, and the Capitol seal appeared blurred and washed out before the last of the storm clouds dissipated from the sky. After it faded away, the only person to appear in the heavens was Marcus of District Nine, who was the only tribute that had died so far to smile in his picture.

Marcus looked about Annie's age – maybe a year or so younger – and just like the type of boy who would team up with a twelve year old girl simply by virtue of the fact that they shared the same common background. He didn't look like a victor – although Annie couldn't say for sure what a victor looked like and why people could either look like victors or not – and now he would never be one.

"Marcus…" Zyse sniffled and swiped the sleeve of her rubber raincoat under her nose. Her head fell into her hands. Her shoulders silently shook.

Annie wanted to crawl the three short feet between them and wrap her arms around the other girl, cradle Zyse's head to her chest just as she did when a little kid became upset after the reaping a few years ago. Just as she did when she stood between Max and her parents' bedroom and told him that their mother was gone.

"Zyse," she hummed soothingly. She shuffled forward a few tentative inches, arms outstretched, and Zyse flew into them. "Did you know Marcus well?"

Zyse shook her head and burrowed further into Annie's arms.

Annie stroked the little girl's hair, thumbing at the coarse texture and taking in the scent of dirt that clung to it. Under it was a softer, fainter smell that reminded Annie of days selling nets in town and passing the bakery. "But he was from home, wasn't he? And you got to know him in the past week like you couldn't get to know anyone else." Annie understood that. Going into the Games showed a person's true colors, and she had gotten to see what Terrence's true character was.

_Character is not what a man is like when everything's okay. It's how he acts in times of trouble._

"But he had to die," Annie murmured. "And that's hard, I know. Because it's the Games, and only one of us is allowed to live." Zyse stiffened, and Annie panicked for a moment that she'd said the wrong thing.

But then Zyse pulled away and gave her a watery smile. "You're…" She hiccupped and wiped tears away. "You're right. I… I…" Face concealed in the darkness that followed the end of the anthem, Zyse wrapped her arms round her legs and rested her chin on her knees. "I don't know," she whispered miserably. Wrapped up in herself like that, she looked impossibly smaller.

"How about we go to sleep, Zyse?" Annie said, adjusting the hood on her head. So far, the nights were never too cold and the days were never too warm. It was easy to sleep in the underbrush without anything more than a raincoat. Most nights, Annie would spend a minute or so contemplating whether it was wise or not to take off her boots before she fell asleep. She wasn't used to wearing shoes for such a long time, and her feet felt strange in them, so she slipped them off. "It's safe here with all those traps set up. Everything will seem better tomorrow."

Zyse nodded, and the two of them laid down in the tattered leaves. Silently, Annie offered to sleep closer – tangled together in the comfortable, reassuring way that she and Max always were when he slept with her in her tiny twin bed – but Zyse turned on her side and away.

The last thing Annie saw before she drifted off to sleep was the back of the girl's head, the strands of dark, sinewy hair that had come undone from her ponytail and pooled on the ground behind her.

What seemed like only moments later, though, she woke to the sound of scuffling, mingled with a distant clacking noise that seemed to cut through the woods like an intangible blade. Careful to make no sudden movements, Annie cracked open her eyes.

Zyse wasn't there. Amid the fervid clicking and clacking of something distant in the night, she was stripping blackberries from a nearby bush. She came into Annie's line of view – back turned – and began pulling blackberries from the next, dropping them in Annie's canvas bag as quietly as she could. Annie snapped her eyes shut again when the girl turned back around.

She was leaving, and Annie was going to let her.

If Zyse felt that leaving was the right thing to do, Annie wouldn't stand in her way. As long as her traps remained set up and the rain fell every night, Annie could survive. She would be perfectly willing to give Zyse all the materials she needed to survive if she asked for them. She wasn't sure why the tribute from District Nine felt the need to sneak away in the middle of the night.

Zyse took a few steps forward and paused, standing close enough that Annie could feel the toe of her boot brush up against her nose. The rubber of her clothing squeaked over the steadily louder clacking, and a thin hand slipped into Annie's jacket pocket and extracted the knife there. That was fine. Zyse could take it. Annie didn't want to hurt anyone anyway…

Something cold and hard pressed against her throat, sharp enough for pain and something wet to bubble to the surface of her skin.

Her eyes shot open – blinded before they could fully adjust to her shadowy surroundings – and her fingers darted around the wrist attached to the knife. "Zyse," she croaked, the skin on her neck breaking open a little more with the subtle movement that came from speaking. "You don't want to do this."

"I have to," Zyse whispered, voice panicked and reedy. Annie's eyes were accustomed enough to the night to see the hard frown that sat beneath those big, sad eyes. Her irises were huge and black, but their focus never swayed from the blade pressed to Annie's neck. "Only one of us is allowed to live."

Zyse's wrist was thin enough that each of Annie's fingers easily circled it. It would be easy, for Annie to pull the knife away from her and topple the little girl holding it to the ground. But she didn't.

"You don't have to do anything," she said. The urgency laden in her tone was from more than a desperate will to live. "You're the one who decides how to play this Game – whether you play this Game. _You're_ the one who chooses. They can throw you in an arena, they can take away your friends, they can tell you to kill or be killed, but they can't force you to do anything. In the end, it's _your_ choice. It's _your_ choice how you live. They can try to take away your humanity, but only _you_ are allowed to give it away."

The knife was still sharp against Annie's neck, but now it was no longer pressed to it like the final barrier between life and death. Zyse's eyes were on Annie's, moved away from the bitter focus they had on her neck.

Annie's fingers were tightly curled around Zyse's wrist. "I could push you down right now. You're awfully light, and I've spent most of my life swimming against high tides and lifting a fifty-pound trawling net. It would be easy to overpower you and take the knife from you," she said. "But I won't." She really hoped she wouldn't be tested on that. "I can tell you what I'd like you to do, but what you do? That's up to you."

A tense few seconds passed where neither of the two girls spoke and Zyse kept the knife lightly balanced on Annie's throat. All around them, the disturbing clacking sound grew louder and more insistent, filling the void that opened between them. Then, Zyse pulled her hand away and sat back on her haunches.

"I'm sorry, Annie," she said, gaze downcast. "I just… Marcus is gone and you're a _Career_ and I don't want to die."

Sitting up, Annie sighed and grimaced when her fingertips came away from her neck an angry red. "I think I understand." So far, the Games had been easy for Annie. She didn't know what she'd do if she had to watch Terrence die and run from the killer. "And I don't think anyone really wants to die. Just," she ran a finger along the marks in her neck, which were shallow enough to leave alone. "Don't do it again, please."

Zyse nodded and yanked Annie into a hug, wrapping her spindly arms around the back of Annie's neck and rubbing against the newfound cuts roughly enough for Annie to wince. There was warmth and friction in the embrace where their coats met. Now, the clicking and clacking was roaring in Annie's ears. But before she had a chance to worry too much about what the noise meant, Zyse became rigid in her arms and scrambled backwards.

"Zyse, what's the matter?"

A single finger shook as it pointed over Annie's shoulder. When she turned, Annie's breath caught.

The forest floor seemed to be moving, enveloped by a great wave of black that was quickly gaining ground. With it came the great snapping noise that was so quiet when Annie had woke, disjointed and choppy, like thousands of pairs of scissors snipping at thick locks of hair. In a matter of seconds, the wave of black was nearly on top of them, and Annie braced her hands on the ground, preparing to stand and bolt as soon as she verified the potential danger at hand.

She was squinting in the dark and trying to decipher exactly _what_ the black stuff – which was shiny and rippling and only inches away – was when she felt pain ripple through her thumb. She couldn't help the scream that bubbled up her throat when she saw what was causing the pain.

A small black beetle bit its way under her skin through the seam between her thumbnail and her finger, ripping and tearing and biting and _hurting_ as it worked its way farther in. Annie rocked upwards and tumbled backwards, watching in panic as a small bump slithered under her very skin. The beetle made it all the way to her wrist before she had the presence of mind to crush it and sprint in the opposite direction, Zyse at her heels.

By the time the two of them reached the edge of the small clearing that made up Annie's campsite, Annie's toes were prickling in pain. She let out a few vocal curses and scolded herself for doing something as stupid as taking off her shoes in the arena. Riding on her momentum, she smacked into a tree and began scrambling to find finger holds.

"We need to climb," she told Zyse, who wordlessly jumped up and wrapped her legs around the tree next to Annie's. "Maybe they can't."

"What if they _can_?" Zyse had already managed to climb about six feet up, but tree she had chosen didn't have branches for another six feet, whereas Annie was about seven feet high and scuttling up and over a thick bough.

"Let's not think about that right now," Annie called. Balancing on one of the thicker limbs at about ten feet up, she took a moment to swat at and squash the bugs that were setting fire to her calves and ankles from inside. Each let out a horrible keening sound when she crushed them, high and gurgling and just _wrong_ over the already disturbing sound of pincer-snapping from below.

Glancing down, Annie saw the beetles swarming around the trees. By some miracle, they couldn't seem to fly or climb. As long as Annie and Zyse remained in their trees, they would be safe from the man-eating beetles, who were doubtlessly mutts.

It occurred to Annie that the appearance of these beetle mutts was the Gamemakers' doing, that somewhere miles away in a terribly high-tech room in the Capitol, a group of men and women made the executive decision to send a massive swarm of flesh-devouring insects after two teenage girls.

The question was, did the Gamemakers send the bugs because they were disappointed that Zyse hadn't killed her? Because they didn't approve of the way Annie had managed to stop her from doing it without more than an ounce of bloodshed? Or were they going to send in the beetles anyway because they wanted these Games to be more exciting?

"Annie!" Zyse yelped, the terror in her voice breaking the older girl from her thoughts. The pack on her back was obviously weighing her down. She was nine feet up and still too far to grab the nearest branch on her tree. "I'm slipping!"

Acting without thought, Annie grabbed for Zyse as the little girl began to fall, managing to tightly clutch the canvas bag over the gap between the two trees. For a split second, the two girls stared at each other, a mix of lingering panic and relief on their faces and Annie holding all of the small girl's weight with her right hand clutching a yellow canvas bag. But Zyse only had the bag straps looped on one shoulder.

But Zyse fell anyway.

And Annie watched beetles swarm around Zyse as she hit the ground, watched them cover her body, looking for entryways so that they could crawl inside of her. Watched hordes of them scuttle into her nose and eyes and ears and mouth until the horrible screams tearing out of the dying girl shifted and distorted into strangled gargling. Annie wanted to look away, but she knew she couldn't. She had to watch Zyse's skin ripple and bubble and bloat until there were no screams or gargles and she could finally look away.

The pack was still in Annie's hand. She buried her face in it and sobbed.

Zyse chose how she lived, but – in the end – she had no choice in her death.

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><p><strong>Zyse was never meant to be a major character.<strong>

**Thoughts?**


	15. The Conch

**Someone told me to update soon… Normally, I'd just shrug that off and finish this next week, but this story has taken on a life of its own…**

**For clarification, this chapter actually takes place in the middle of the previous one, after Annie comforts Zyse and before Zyse's death.**

Chapter XV – The Conch

"Would you care to purchase a conch shell, Mr. Odair? You can hear _La Triste Esprit de la Mer_ whispering if you hold it up to your ear."

Finnick had to hold back a snort and keep walking down the street, past the vendor situated on the sidewalk and pedaling shells to the common passersby. Ever since Annie had told the story of _La Triste Esprit de la Mer_, it had become all the rage among the citizens of the Capitol, who were entranced by the melancholy nature of the story that they couldn't quite understand.

Everywhere Finnick went, murmurs of the spirit of the sea followed him like a particularly crazy fan, and each time he had to choke back a laugh. The name of _La Triste Esprit de la Mer_ sounded absolutely ridiculous in the affected Capitol accent. Their particular emphasis on the s in _Triste_ and _Esprit_ had the two words running together into one, and each strong vowel was over-pronounced.

The mentors from the other districts were no better. The twang in Chaff's laughing voice made the consonants too hard, and Blight's tendency to pronounce words like _about_ as _aboot_ butchered the vowels even more severely than the Capitol accent did.

Finally reaching his destination, Finnick adjusted his tie and smoothed down the raw silk of his shirt, which shimmered in the colorful lights of the Capitol streets. Tonight, he would be gaining sponsors the old fashioned way, sitting down to dinner, sharing expensive wine, and going home to separate beds.

His first potential sponsor was Casca Murellus, a man known among Capitol citizens and mentors alike for his poise and esteem in the eye of the public. He had a wife who worked planning weddings and other major social events, which – Casca had once admitted to Finnick – was more of a hobby for her than anything else, considering how little they needed money. His son was around Finnick's age and apparently just like his father.

Finnick stepped into the _Jus ad Bellum_, greeted by a gust of chilly wind and an excessively merry hostess. As summer neared, the Capitol blasted cold air into their buildings to the point where Finnick needed to put on a jacket whenever he went inside. No matter how much he associated with them, he would never understand the citizens of the Capitol.

"Welcome to the _Jus ad Bellum_, Mr. Odair," the hostess cheered. "How can I help you tonight? Do you have reservations?" The lighting in the restaurant was dim, but the hostess' teeth and eyes flashed, both a peculiar shade of lavender.

"Murellus," Finnick muttered, eyes tracing the ivies that hung from the ceiling in delicate vines, their green shade melting into the muted cream color of the walls. Dutifully, he followed the hostess as she led him through the jungle of vines and past a convincing waterfall. She pointed an ecstatic finger at the man sitting at a small table in the corner of the room, and Finnick nodded in thanks.

Casca Murellus was a man of refined tastes, a rarity among the more capricious styles of the Capitol. He dressed in a simple pinstripe suit, his tie a molten gold that seemed liquid and matched the square spectacles balanced on the bridge of his nose. As Finnick slid into the seat across from him, he glanced up with eyes the color of green granite.

"Finnick Odair," Casca smiled. The upper class accent was less affected, closer to the way District Two spoke. "It's always nice to see you."

"You too," Finnick said. "How's your wife? And your son?"

Casca sighed and shook his head. "Cinna's decided to become a stylist, designing outfits and costumes for those less fortunate than himself." Taking the menu in his hand, he opened it and laid it out on the crisp, white tablecloth. "I can't say that's the career path I would have chosen for him, but it seems to make him happy, so I support him fully."

Finnick laughed. "You know, Casca, there's a little rule among us mentors." He squinted at his own menu, unable to decipher anything beyond the elegant font. "And that's to listen to what the stylists say and conform to their every whim. Even more than the escorts, the stylists are the greatest connection between the districts and the Capitol. They bridge the gap in a way not a lot of people can."

"Spoken like a true diplomat," Casca declared, raising his empty glass. "You would go far, Finnick Odair, if you were born in the Capitol."

The qualifier added to the end made Finnick want to sigh and wince, especially knowing that Casca meant it in a way that the more thoughtless Capitol citizens didn't. He did his best to laugh it off. "I'd go farther if I could read this menu. I don't know how you can."

Grinning, Casca blinked twice and very deliberately mashed together his eyebrows. A pair of what Finnick had assumed were decorative jewels on his glasses lit up, casting a bright glow over the menu laid out on the table. "Your friend Beetee made these for me," Casca said. "A token of gratitude, I suppose, for sponsoring his tributes. They had promise, though. Still do. That Cord boy has impressed everyone with his innovative use of the design and individual facets of the arena this year."

"I can't say I've really kept track of the boy from District Three," Finnick admitted. "He hasn't encountered either of my tributes so far."

"Your tributes. That's what we're really here to discuss, isn't it? How your tributes are doing. Well, they're both currently in alliances, aren't they? The boy with the Careers and Annie with that girl from District Nine." Casca shook his head, sending light back and forth across the table, catching in the gleam of the glasses and silverware. "Not a very wise decision on her part, especially when the little girl ultimately betrays her."

Finnick paused from scrutinizing the menu. "Betrays her? What makes you say that, Casca?"

"Body language." Casca nodded his thanks to the waitress, who filled his empty glass with merlot. A single drop of the burgundy drink fell onto the pristine tablecloth, staining and spreading like blood as it drained from the victim of a trident-stabbing. "It's vital in understanding an individual's true intentions. Your Annie should never have mentioned the fact that there is only one victor. It only reminded the little girl that the both of them will not be able to live."

"So," Finnick cast his cloth napkin over the stain, hiding it from view but not really getting rid of it. "To be frank, you're not going to sponsor her. I can't blame you, if that's true."

"Because," Casca smiled. "In the end, it's my choice. You can tell me what you'd prefer, but it all comes down to my decision. But no," he grinned wider at Finnick's involuntary sigh. "I will not not sponsor her, if you'll excuse the double negative. Annie proved herself a contender before even stepping foot in the arena."

"How?" Sure, Annie was beautiful, and she had received a good score, but neither of those things would prove her a competitor in the eyes of someone like Casca Murellus.

Raising the glass of merlot to his lips, Casca said, "You must never underestimate the Capitol's fervent love for a good story. Your Annie certainly didn't. Because of the melancholy tale she told during her interview, every single citizen knows her name, whether they like it or not. And because of her story of the sad sea spirit – pardon me for not using the name, but I'm afraid I'll horribly mispronounce it – we are seeing these at every turn."

Casca tapped one of the tiny lights in his glasses, gently pressing it deeper into the metal of the frames. Finnick could swear he heard a very faint click as something slid into place, and – when Casca gestured to the table – he saw the silhouette of a conch shell spread out between them.

"Did you know," said Casca. "That the supposed 'sound of the ocean' that we hear when we hold the conch up to our ear is caused by the resonant cavity of the shell producing pink noise? In addition, the book _Lord of the Flies_ – don't search for it; it's quite illegal reading – features a conch shell that represents order and democracy. Yes," Casca tapped the light again and the conch disappeared from the table. "The conch is quite a noble and meaningful symbol. I would take care to remember that, Finnick, for future reference."

Why would Casca Murellus have the image of the conch concealed on his person? And why was the meaning of the conch so important? The only answer Finnick could think of had butterflies soaring in his stomach. "I'll remember that," he promised.

"Annie is treading quite precarious waters, however," Casca said. Anyone else would have been confused by the transition, but Finnick understood and nodded. "Refusing to kill puts her in a difficult position."

"It does." Finnick raised his glass to his lips and took a sip, savoring the sweet tang that flooded his mouth. Merlot was a bit of an acquired taste, and he had drunk enough over the last few years to appreciate each delicate nuance in its bouquet. "The others wouldn't believe that she would go through with it, because of that, but I think I always believed her. There's something about her that makes it seem like, if anyone could do it, it'd be her."

"Just beware of this. There will come a time where she will need to prove that she is willing to follow through. That time may come with this little girl from District Nine, and it may come later. The choice she makes then will be pivotal in the difference between her life and death at the hands of the Gamemakers."

"The Gamemakers?" In his mind, Finnick had been painting a picture of the girl from District Nine sitting on Annie's chest with a knife pressed to her throat. Casca's mention of the Gamemakers molded a very different scene.

Gently sipping his wine, Casca flashed his teeth – which were now stained red – and Finnick was reminded of exactly who he was talking to. Casca was retired. That was why he was sitting across from Finnick and not running between the president and a bright, circular room filled with holo-screens. "Who do you think the true murderers of the arena are, Finnick? The moment I grew a heart was the day Dionysus Stark took my place."

Finnick nodded, his throat dry.

"Now, remember this," whispered Casca. "When Annie makes this pivotal decision, the correct one is the one most likely to result in her death."


	16. The Other Half of Six

**I thought about posting this tomorrow instead of tonight, since it's late (and literally five minutes after I finished doing secondary edits), but then I figured… why not? Over fifty reviews, guys! That means I've written stuff that's been worth it enough for people to comment on it over fifty times. Exciting stuff.**

**Enjoy.**

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><p>Chapter XVI – The Other Half of Six<p>

When Annie woke the next morning, the heels of her hands were jammed hard enough in her ears for her head to ache under the pressure, and her back was pressed against the tough bark of the tree. Dreams were swiftly disappearing from memory, but the loud sound of clacking and the high, drawn-out scream that distorted into gargling gasps was still playing in a phantom loop between her ears.

But there was no more snapping coming from below. The beetle mutts were gone.

Careful to bend her knees as she fell, she landed on the forest floor beneath her tree with the muted crunch of fallen leaves beneath her bare feet. All the same, her soles spiked in pain at the hard impact from the ten-foot fall.

Across the clearing, she could see her boots sitting side by side near the leaves that had made up her bed the past few nights. Her thoughts still foggy from sleep and grief, she took a few tentative steps towards them, only to jump and fall onto her backside when she stepped on something cold and soft and_ definitely not a leaf_.

Annie had been too close for a hovercraft to swoop in during the night.

She couldn't look at the body, which she had briefly felt _deflate_ under her foot. Pulling her knees up to her chin, Annie squeezed her eyes shut and fought off the urge to clamp her hands over her ears, vividly recalling Zyse's final strangled sounds before her cannon rang through the night.

Perhaps if she had watched the life leave the twelve year old girl from District Nine it would have been worse. Annie knew that the noises associated with Zyse's death would haunt her for the rest of her – likely short – life.

After a solid minute of trying not to cry or vomit, she peered out through half-closed eyelids and the blur of unshed tears, and extracted the canteen and its strap from Zyse's remains. It was still capped shut and full, untouched by the bug attack.

"I'm sorry, Zyse," she whispered to the corpse, still unable to gaze at it. "You didn't deserve to die this way. You didn't deserve to die at all."

And at that, Annie stood and walked over to her boots, yanking the rubber material over her feet and calves, which were riddled with the bumps of beetles caught beneath her skin. It was only when she had strapped them up and stood that she heard the singing that seemed to meander through the underbrush.

"_I've laid out the rail. I've set down the track._

_I'm leaving this hellhole, and I'm never coming back._

_Because the trains we make are built for speed,_

_And the urge to leave's become a need."_

The voice was obviously male and held a note of cockiness in it that Terrence didn't have, a selfish kind that seemed more haughty than anything else. As Annie approached, a boy came to view, hanging from one of her snares and twisting his body in a way that looked more like dancing than struggling. He continued his song with a series of mumbles, as if he had forgotten the rest of the words but remembered the tune.

"What are you doing?" she called, and the wordless singing came to a halt.

The boy managed to right himself in the snare and face her. His hair was a light enough shade of blond to be considered silver and long enough to fall into his equally colorless eyes. "About time someone came around and found me," he coughed. "Do you know how long I've been hanging here? I mean, I hear some yelling, and I think to myself, 'Well, Mat, if you follow the girlish screaming, you might be able to take them both down and increase your chance of winning.' So I'm walking here, and suddenly I'm hanging in the air from my arms and legs all the way through the night." His momentum had him idly spinning around, meeting Annie's eyes at every chance.

"Finally, it just comes to the point where I don't really care whether I attract attention or not because I figure someone coming just increases my chances of being able to get down. So," Mat finished, dropping his head back. His bangs fell out of his face to reveal a pale scar extending from his hairline to just above his left eyebrow. "You want to kill me while I'm helpless like the merciless Career that you surely embody? Or do you have the balls to let me down and fight me like a man?"

"Um…" Annie wasn't quite sure how to respond. Somehow, the short speech she had composed about refraining from killing didn't seem like an adequate response.

"Aw nuts and bolts," he swore, his back to her now. "You're not one of those retard tributes, are you? You know, one of those kids who forget how to function as soon as the countdown ends?"

Annie cleared her throat. "No."

"You don't sound too sure to me, and the monosyllabic words aren't doing much to help your case."

Gripping onto the straps of her canvas bag for support, she huffed through her nose and whistled through her teeth. "I'm capable of functioning just fine." His words made her think of Nicolas Abyssal, who Terrence had volunteered to replace. "And don't say_ retard_. It's offensive."

Mat laughed like he sang, brash and cold. "Sorry. Didn't mean to hurt any precious feelings. Didn't think they'd matter much out here in the middle of murder central."

"Murder central," Annie repeated, unsure of how accurate the term really was. The words reminded her of her recited speech, though, and now was as good a time as any to make the ultimatum.

So she crossed through the remaining seven feet or so that lay between her and Mat, and grabbed him by his shoulders, effectively stopping his motion. A pack was still slung over his back, but his weapon – a long, narrow spear – lay on the ground beneath him. "I'll let you down," she began. "On one condition."

"Yeah?" His eyebrows – which were so pale and thin – rose, rippling the scar on his forehead. And what's your one, measly little condition?"

Annie clenched her jaw, flared her nostrils, focused her eyes intently on his. His carefree, devil may care attitude rubbed her the wrong way. It seemed out of place in the arena in a more disturbing way than the fidgeting of the girl from District Six. It dawned on her that the boy caught in her snare and talking a mile a minute was the boy from District Six.

"We can team up," she proposed, hating the idea as soon as she suggested it. "I've got food and water, and these traps stop anything heavier than a gopher from breaking through to my campsite." The thought of those clicking and clacking beetles made her squeeze her eyes shut. She opened them and continued. "The only thing is, you have to promise not to kill anyone."

Mat stayed quiet for a full minute of consideration – longer than Annie thought he was capable of going without speaking – then burst into another cold, brash, haughty stream of laughter. "That's stupid. You're either a cripplingly naïve idealist or good as brain dead. How are you going to win without killing anyone?"

Annie shifted her feet, dropping her hands to her sides. The morning light shone slatted through the leaves, bringing out the subdued yellow in his hair and the flecks of stony blue in his eyes. In her mind, she reminded herself that this was a person – a boy – who didn't deserve the situation he was in, no matter his particularly cantankerous personality. "Hasn't anyone ever told you that it's not whether you win or lose but how you play the game?"

"Sure," Mat snorted. "Losers have. But when losing is the same thing as dying a gory and excruciating death on national television? Not so much, fish-girl."

_Fish-girl?_ Annie tried hard to quell her irritation. "My _name_ is _Annie_."

"I know." Mat splayed his hands the best he could with his wrists caught in her snare. The motion caused him to start spinning again. "All of Panem knows your name, _Annie Cresta of District Four_. And what are the rest of us? 'The boy from District Six, the girl from District Eight.' Tell me." He waited to make a complete revolution and fix her under his gaze before continuing. "Do you have a story for me, _Annie_? Or are you a one hit wonder living large off your daddy's bed time stories?"

Annie clenched her fists. She darted forward and roughly grabbed the boy's shoulders again. "I have a story for you," she spat.

"There once was a boy from District Six. He thought he was clever and thought he was strong, but – deep down inside – he knew the truth. Everyone knew the truth. That he was really a coward. That he was bitter and jealous and maybe even a little bit scared. _Annie_," she purposely used her name and not his, just to watch him scowl and try to squirm from her hold on him. "_Annie_ felt bad for him, but, she left the choice up to him. And he chose how he wanted to waste what could very well be the last few days, _hours_," – Zyse hadn't been given more than a handful of _minutes_ – "of his life."

Mat said nothing, just gritted his teeth and mashed together his nonexistent eyebrows. Then, he spat in her face.

Blinking hard at the impact, she spun him around and snatched at a fistful of his pack. Pulling her knife from her pocket – hand skimming over the hunk of garnet that had been there since day one – she cut the straps from her shoulders and caught it before it could fall to the ground.

"I'll come around twice a day to feed you," Annie said, tense and business-like. She scooped up the spear. "You can yell if you need anything or there's trouble. I don't plan on going much farther than a little ways through the woods. There's a little clearing nearby where I set up camp, so I'll be able to hear you if you call."

"I don't plan," Mat hissed, mocking her locution, "On calling.

Annie shrugged and began walking back to the clearing, ignoring the calls and jeers aimed at her back. Eventually, Mat started to bellow songs at the top of his lungs again. His voice was gruff but – Annie begrudged admitting – pleasant.

"_Twenty-four tributes will play in the Games,_

_Twenty-four tributes will play._

_Cut one down; a cannon sounds._

_Twenty-three tributes will play in the Games."_

His song choice, however, left something to be desired.

When Annie reached the campsite, Zyse's remains were gone, taken from the arena by a hovercraft to be returned to her mother in District Nine, who had been forced to watch her young daughter's gruesome death on television. Shaking those thoughts from her head, Annie sat on her haunches and took an inventory of the items in Mat's pack.

A water bottle the size of Annie's fist – half full, a little baggie of white pills that she suspected were either for pain or fever, a small square tin that – upon further inspection – contained a collection of adhesive bandages of various sizes, and a thin, orange blanket.

The first thing Annie did was shake the largest bandage she could from the tin and replace the piece of sock taped to her left ear. After almost a week in the arena, the damaged ear had healed over with tough, painful scabs. They cracked and she hissed, feeling blood bead to the surface.

After a moment of deliberation, she unstrapped her boots – a thrill of irrational horror sweeping through her – and took a look at her legs.

She immediately fell back and laced her fingers behind her head, staring sightlessly into the sky. Jamming her eyelids together, the image of her toes, her ankles, her calves burned in her brain. Only the thought that the cameras were on her was enough for her to sit back up and take a closer look, grimacing.

Annie started with the toes. Gingerly, she dabbed at the gaping holes, exhaling through her teeth. A low, drawn-out whistle echoed through the clearing. The ravaged areas around the seams of her toenails were deep and raw, and Annie had the feeling that – if more beetles had managed to crawl under her skin – she could have lost her toenails. But no blood bubbled or dribbled or oozed from them, which Annie was eternally grateful for.

Extending from her toes, angry red lines ran up her legs at various lengths. They didn't particularly hurt, which made Annie concerned. Each was slightly raised and ended with a beetle-sized bump. As she swiped her fingertips over them, they were soft and gave little resistance. Annie had to swallow bile and remind herself that all of Panem was watching her.

Should she cut the bugs out or leave them in? As far as Annie saw it, both options presented the risk of infection – either from open wound exposure or the bugs decomposing beneath her skin.

The wave of nausea at the second thought made the decision for her.

Taking the knife – still clutched in her right hand from earlier – Annie angled the tip under a bump on her shin and pushed. A flash of pain and digging and blood, and the mangled body of a beetle slid down the blade and onto the forest floor. At the sight of it, Annie cringed. Of their own volition, her palms moved to her ears – clicks and screams gargling through her thoughts – before she dropped them and continued.

In total, she ripped fourteen bugs from her legs, all of them lying in a gory, disfigured pile at her feet. The worst of the crawling red ridges in her skin extended all the way to the base of her left knee, numb all the way up. With a careful hand, she smoothed down an adhesive bandage over each of them. If it weren't for those lines, it would have looked like her legs were badly shaven.

Finally, she pulled on the pair of socks from her pack – one was cut and ragged at the top – and slid her boots over them, hiding all but the highest mark, which peeked out from her boot like a timid child.

Annie settled down for a breakfast of leftover gopher meat. She'd dressed her injuries, she hadn't puked once. Overall, she was proud of herself.

The rest of the day was largely uneventful, spent bird watching and trying hard not to think of Zyse's unfortunate demise.

At one point, Annie climbed one of the taller trees, trying to take a look around the arena. But from her spot at the bottom of the valley, all she could see was forest in all directions, rising to one side and flat on the other. There was no one in sight, although someone could likely be roaming through the woods right now, hidden by the thick overhang of the trees.

Not far back the way she came, Annie could make out the break in the trees where the river ran through the arena. She still couldn't be sure whether the water was safe to drink or not, but the strange behavior of the fish – coupled with the almost too convenient nightly rainfall – made her inclined to believe it wasn't.

So Annie spent the better part of the morning and some of the afternoon trying to weave together a basket, close-knit enough to hold water in. She wouldn't put it beyond the Gamemakers to stop the rainfall for a few days just to see how the tributes would react, and when that happened, she wanted to be ready.

Annie had never really made a basket before, but she had figured that it couldn't be too different from pulling together a really tight-knit net.

She was wrong.

By the time the sun was about two-thirds of the way across the sky, Annie only had about three inches of basket. But each section was weaved together so tightly that her fingers were blistering and her right hand – the one the bug mutt had burrowed through – was cramping. So she stood, running her palms down the front of her shorts, and gathered up some food and drink to bring to Mat.

"Your name is just Mat?" she asked once he had a hunk of half-scalded gopher meat in his hand. He had to do a sit up every time he wanted to bite off a piece. "Like a placemat or a doormat?" It sounded rude to her own ears, but it was an honest question. At least she was _trying_ to make civil conversation with him.

"No," mumbled Mat, not bothering to swallow his food before speaking. It reminded Annie of Terrence, and she fleetingly wondered how he was doing with the Careers. How many people he had been forced to kill. "It's a nickname. You'd know my real name if you'd actually paid attention. After all," he sat up – swaying in the air – and ripped off another chunk of meat. "They don't use nicknames when you're reaped. You said so yourself."

"Well," she said, voice tight, telling herself that he was just being bitter and a little jealous. "What _is_ your name, then?"

She was surprised when he didn't put up a fight. "Matonia Ford."

"Matonia?" The name sounded strange to her ears, as foreign as the way he clipped together his words and dropped most of his t's. "How did you get a name like that?"

"Well, Mr. Flickerman." Mat pitched his voice so that it was high and feminine. His impression of the carefree, lilting tones of District Four was impressive. "I was named after a hovercraft that was named after my mom's uncle's nephew's cousin that was named after a train."

Annie blinked. She knew he was making fun of her, but she wasn't sure how to respond to the ridiculous string of relations he had just rattled off. "No," she intoned. "Seriously."

"What? You don't believe me? It's really a fascinating story. Don't you think the Capitol wants to hear it?"

"Okay fine." Sloshing around the water in her canteen – Mat hadn't been given anything to drink yet – she said, "I guess you'll just have to go without this."

"Please," scoffed Mat. "You wouldn't."

Lowering her hand and playing with the cap of the canteen, Annie sighed. She'd been bluffing, but she had hoped he wouldn't catch on immediately. "How do you know?"

Mat rolled his dull, colorless eyes, blowing his bangs away from his face. "Well, if you don't give me any water, there's a chance I could dehydrate and die. And I mean, really, the only reason you're keeping me tied up is because I wouldn't promise to be a pansy and refuse to kill anyone." Picking bits of burnt flesh off his gopher meat, he sneered. "You wouldn't make me promise something like that if you weren't already doing it, right?" he asked. In a flash, his face grew a grim seriousness that Annie saw too often. The silver scar on his forehead contrasted his pale gold hair, rather than blending in. "Unless I judged you wrong and you're just trying to play with your food."

"Never," Annie whispered. The word brought a hush to the forest that even the birds knew better than to interrupt. Eyes tracing Mat's features – the upward turn at the end of his nose, the thin, almost nonexistent eyebrows, the complete and utter paleness of him that she had never seen in District Four – she wondered who he really was. "You know I'm always interested in a good story," she said, not really thinking until after she spoke. "What's yours?"

They were quiet then for a long time. Without speaking, Mat ate the rest of his meal and Annie gave him his share of water. And when the sun had disappeared from the horizon – leaving dreary hues of grey and strips of navy in its wake – Annie turned to walk back to her campsite for the rain and the anthem.

"Annie Cresta," Mat called. She spun back around to look at him. "Have you ever thought about what you wanted to do… when you grew up?"

Annie tried to think about it, but she couldn't think of anything. When she was little, she had always wanted to marry a dashing boy whose father owned a boat that would be passed onto him – like Terrence. Marrying a man who would inherit a boat was one of the few ways to guarantee a healthy amount of food.

But after her mother died and Annie scrambled to take her place, she'd been too stuck in the past and present to think about the future anymore. Here in the Games, she doubted she'd ever be able to. The fact that she never had made it a bit easier to accept her imminent death.

"No," she told Mat. "Not really."

"I used to," Mat said. He spoke so quietly Annie had to crane her neck forward. "All the time. I've known what I wanted to do with my life ever since I was a little kid." Chuckling bitterly, he blew his bangs off his forehead, revealing the scar there. "I got bullied for it too. 'Miss Matonnia,'" His accent changed entirely, still clipped and very District Six but now deep and sneering. "'Making wishes to your _fairy_ godmother? Huh, Miss Matonia?'"

Annie waited for him to continue. She wouldn't ask him anything he wasn't going to give up freely anyway, even if she was itching to know how bullying escalated to such a point where he would have a permanent scar on his face.

"I wanted to be an actor," he burst. "Not one of those stupid actors on bad Capitol programs but one of those actors who sing and dance too." His eyes were miles away. "When Cashmere won when we were little, her talent was acting, and on her Victory Tour – when she got to the Capitol – she did this monologue for Caesar Flickerman. And it was _terrible_. I remember standing in the square and watching it with my parents and thinking, 'I could do so much better than that.'

"Well," Mat droned. "I guess I got to be on television, right?"

That made Annie's heart break a little bit, no matter how tempestuous Mat seemed to be most of the time. Scrambling for something to say, she thought of the way he darted back and forth between his own voice and hers, his own voice and the nameless bully's. She thought of the way his gruff voice shone so clear and true when he sang that terrible song about tributes dying in the Games.

"I think you could have been an actor," she murmured. "If things were different."

His eyebrows shot up, as if he had just realized that she was even there. "Yeah? You think so?"

"Yeah. I do."

Squirming in the snare, he began spinning circles again, his eyes like the beacon in a lighthouse. "Can you do me a favor, then?" The night was growing darker quickly, and the first raindrops echoed as they streamed down leaves, not yet reaching the two tributes closer to the ground.

"I guess," Annie said. "It depends on the favor. I'm not going to just let you go free, if that's what you're going to ask."

Mat's face scrunched up, and he wrinkled his nose. "Not exactly," he mumbled. "But I need to take a leak."


	17. x2 minus 26x plus 169

**I know what you're all thinking. "Goodness, R&B. You take a week to post, and then the chapter you post is all short-like." Well, I wanted to introduce an interesting subplot, but I wasn't sure how. Here's the result.**

* * *

><p>Chapter XVII x2-26x+169<p>

"Why don't they just kill her?" Finnick asked, balancing his elbows on the counter and resting his face in his hands. He was sprawled in one of the uncomfortable chairs in the District Four cubicle, watching Annie catch rain in her canteen.

Beside him, Haymitch knocked back another bottle of liquor, dropping it at his feet beside the others. Ever since his tributes died in the bloodbath, Haymitch had been occupying Mags' seat, making snarky remarks at the various actions of the tributes and growing serious and silent when something stirred the rebellion in him.

"After the way she talked that little girl out of killing her," Finnick continued. "After the way she told that boy that she wouldn't kill anyone and would keep him tied up unless he promised to do the same, why don't they just kill her?"

"This is the Capitol," Haymitch slurred. "They like to play with their food."

"What do you mean?" asked Finnick, reminded of something the boy from Six had said that had sounded similar.

"It's not enough to just kill her." Opening another bottle, Haymitch sighed. His weary tone hinted at the notion that he spoke from experience. "If she dies now with no kills it could look like she was a martyr to morality. And no one likes a martyr. No." Haymitch threw down half of the bottle in one swallow. "They don't want to just kill her. They want her to kill someone."

"Kill someone?" Onscreen, Annie raised her face to the sky, eyes closed and with an expression torn between a smile and a frown. Running a hand through his hair, Finnick puffed out his cheeks and slowly exhaled. "You're probably right." Unbidden, he thought of the girl from District Two in his own Games, who was adamant against torturing the other tributes. Until a few well-placed mutts changed her mind. Forcing Annie to kill someone was exactly something that the Capitol would do.

"Of course I'm right," Haymitch grumbled. He stood and stretched his arms over his head, popping a few joints in his back. At his feet, empty bottles rolled across the District Four cubicle. "But there's nothing we can do about that. At least not tonight."

Regarding the older man, Finnick laid a cheek on his open palm, allowing it to sag into it unattractively. "Headed to bed?"

"How long have we known each other?" asked Haymitch. "Three years? No, we're going out for drinks."

"_We?_" The last time Finnick had spent a night away from the monitor in the Games Room, he'd been woken up at three in the morning by the tribute heart monitor on his wrist and a very frightened and very treed Annie.

"You. Me," Haymitch said slowly, complete with unnecessary hand gestures. "Good thing I'm not looking for intelligent company." Reaching down, he snagged the remaining unopened bottle on the ground and opened it expertly, offering some to Finnick only to pull it away and down it at the last second. "I'm not giving you any liquor, so you might as well come."

"Well," Finnick deadpanned. "With such a charming invitation…"

The next thing he knew, he was sitting at the bar in O'Brien's, simultaneously trying to fend off overeager women and have a conversation with a very drunk Haymitch. In the muted light of the green light fixtures hanging from the ceiling, the man's face looked pale and drawn and so very, very old. Finnick had only seen Haymitch this way once before, two years ago when the District Twelve girl tribute that year a slight blonde girl with sharp wit was killed on the third day by a hawk mutt.

"Finnick." Amid the chaotic din of the bar, he had to lean in to hear Haymitch speak, slurred and hushed. "I'm alone."

Finnick flinched. The words were heavy with sorrow, burdened by years of watching children die and throwing back liquid fire.

Jostling his mug, spilling amber liquid on the sticky countertop of the bar, Haymitch caught Finnick's gaze in his own. His eyes shined in the relative darkness, pupils wide with drink but surrounded by a thin band of stormy grey. "Why are you doing this? Meeting in crowded bars and warehouses and half-finished buildings. Scheming."

Finnick blinked, caught off guard by the impromptu nature of the question. No one had asked him that since he joined their little victor-rebel circle three years ago, freshly sixteen and spending hours each night sobbing under a showerhead.

When Mags had first dragged him along to one of their little clandestine meetings, he had sworn his loyalty with violent fantasies of Snow's death rolling through his thoughts like a particularly gruesome clip of the Games. His jaw had been tight and unyielding, promising revenge in each word.

It wasn't until later that he thought of how his father's back ached every night he returned home from hauling in fish all day, burns on his hands from the tough rope used in the nets. Of how his mother's skin grew sallow from hours working in the cannery, her staggering beauty lost in sad wrinkles and streaks of grey in her golden hair.

It would be selfish almost a waste of time to tear down the Capitol for the sake of revenge. But doing it for his parents to see them happy and no longer staring at their shoes when Peacekeepers marched past, no longer digging deeper ruts in the skin of their foreheads when they heard of Finnick's "escapades would always be worth it.

And even later than that when an eighteen year old boy from District Two came out of the Games blind and skittish that Finnick thought of the tributes and how just as Casca Murellus had alluded to last night they weren't the true killers but always the victims, no matter the monsters they turned into in the arena.

He was doing it for revenge. He was doing it for his family. He was doing it for all the past and present tributes dead and alive.

Finnick shrugged. "Don't know."

A smirk spread across Haymitch's mouth, more bitter than amused. "Of course you don't," he chuckled. "The same way you're Panem's playboy." Drawing his hand away from his drink for the first time that night, he rubbed at the stubble collecting on his face, and Finnick knew that was the closest thing to a _moment_ that he and Haymitch would ever have.

In the ensuing lull in conversation, Finnick ran a hand through his hair, bringing his hand away and cringing at the auburn strands stuck between his fingers and glinting in the dim light. A brief spike of panic rose in his gut. Was he losing his hair? If word spread through the Capitol that Finnick Odair was losing his hair, would Snow still force clients on him? Would clients still want him? Would his father or his mother die _because he was losing his hair_?

Finnick took a deep breath. He was being ridiculous. The only reason he was losing any hair was stress. _Stress._

Beside him, Haymitch laughed, his eyes on Finnick's hand. "You're nineteen," he said, as if reading Finnick's thoughts. "If you're losing your hair now, then there's no hope for the rest of us."

"How old are you, Haymitch?" Mags and Beetee were old, but at least in Finnick's mind Haymitch was timeless. Wrinkles pinched at his eyes and ruffled his forehead, but his hair was still just a few shades lighter color of the coal his district mined.

"Thirty-seven," Haymitch grumbled, a bit reluctant to answer. "You're just lucky I'm not a woman, Odair."

Finnick tilted his chin downward and peered up at Haymitch through his eyelashes, smoldering. "Why of course, Mr. Abernathy," he cooed, as sultry as he could manage without laughing. "A woman never reveals her age. Especially," here he punctuated his statement with an upward pitch in his voice, adopting the Capitol accent he had heard too much of over the past few years. "Here in the _glorious_ Capitol."

In response, Haymitch downed the rest of his drink in a single, long gulp. "Never," he commanded, expression dead serious but for the gleam in his eye. "Do that again. It's no wonder everyone here seems to think you play both fields."

_Well I do, if not by choice_. But Finnick refrained from saying that aloud. Instead, he hailed over the bartender and ordered the most ridiculous sounding beverage he could think of.

"You know," Haymitch murmured, the pensiveness from earlier still lingering. "You're lucky in some ways, Finnick. Ways that matter."

Swallowing, Finnick bit his tongue. If he could help it, he tried not to think about the broad picture of his life. The only way to survive was to remain thinking about other people, other people's problems. In his own Games, he'd only thought of himself. In his own Games, he hadn't really survived. And before that, he had no siblings, only his mother who was always at the cannery and never at home and his father. For a long time, he had been all about _him_. But over the years, something had changed.

And sometimes, Finnick had to wonder whether the change really was for the better.

"How am I lucky?" he asked.

But the older man's attention had been drawn elsewhere, just over Finnick's shoulder. "Maybe not too lucky," he mumbled.

Finnick swiveled around in his bar stool, almost colliding with a boy who stood behind him, dressed all in white and clutching an envelope in his hand. His hair and eyes were both dark, black in the lighting of the bar. For the past three years, the little boy who delivered Snow's client lists had been shorter, with shaggy blonde locks, striking blue eyes, and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose. Nothing like the dark, muscular boy standing before Finnick now.

"What happened to the other boy?" Finnick asked, recalling the look of panic in the blonde boy's eyes a few nights before when he had stopped at the Games Room to deliver one of Snow's letters.

The dark boy shook his head and shoved the cream-colored envelop into Finnick's hands, scurrying off in a shroud of uncanny silence. He moved differently than any other Avox that Finnick had ever seen, each step precise and regimented, like a Peacemaker or a foot soldier.

But there were no real militaries in Panem. _Were there?_

It was then that Finnick realized that the envelope did not smell like roses. Turning back around to Haymitch, the two men shared a look, and Finnick moved to open the letter, each sleight of hand slow and steady, as if he were unveiling a great secret.

Judging by the smattering of unintelligible print on the paper inside, he was abruptly certain that that was exactly what he was doing.

_x2-14x+49=0, x2-178x+7921=0_

_x2-214x+11449=0, x2-46x+529=0, x2-178x+7921=0_

_x2-14x+49=0, x2-214x+11449=0, x2-34x+289=0, x2-202x+10201=0, x2-146x+5229=0, x2-142x+5041=0, x2-82x+1681=0, x2-158x+6241=0_

_~ x2-26x+169=0_

"We need to show this to Beetee," Haymitch whispered.

Finnick had a feeling that he would be losing more hair.

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><p><strong>The 2s that are after the xs in the above problem are actually x raised to the second power. Unfortunately, this site sucks with that symbol stuff. "Writers must not be able to do math!" Way to perpetuate a stereotype, FFnet!<strong>

**Alright, readers. I have a little proposition. Anyone who can name who (or what or where) sent this little secret message gets the next chapter dedicated to them. Anyone who manages to decode the code used in the message, I will write a one-shot for. Their choice on topic/characters/whole-shebang.**

**So get your thinking caps on. I will even give you a clue for the coded message:**

_**Notice that once the math part of this code is simplified the resulting numbers are all odd. The solution to the code has to do with something that odd numbers can be but even numbers almost **never** can be.**_

**I'll be interested to see what people think.**


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